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Pamela Kixkpatxick 





IPallabs, If grits, anir piiior "^omxs. 















Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2011 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 

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JOAN OF ARC -^^4- 






Broadway, Ludgate Hill 



yNivEJ^smr of north gsj^ouna 





With way-worn feet, a pilgrim woe-begone, 

Life's upward road I journeyed many a day, 

And liymning many a sad yet sootliing lay 
Beguiled my wandering witli tlie charms of song. 

Lonely my heart, and rugged was my way, 
Yet often plucked I, as I passed along, 

The wild and simple flowers of Poesy ; 
And as beseemed the wayward Pancy's child. 

Entwined each ramdom weed that pleased mine oyi 
Accept the wreath, Beloved ! it is wild 

And rudely garlanded ; yet scorn not thou 
The humble offering, where the sad rue weavee 
'Mid gayer flowers its intermingled leaves. 

And I have twined the myrtle for thy brow. 



JOAN OF ARC ..... 1 


The Retrospect ,...,:. 141 

IROMAXCE . . . ^ . - - . . 145 

To Ukban » , . . 150 

Tre IVrisER's Mansion „ . . . , 151 

To Hymen 155 

Hospitality ...:.... ...... 156 

Sonnets 159 

To Lycon 163 

Rosamond to Henry 167 

The Race of Odin 17 1 

The Death of Moses 180 

The Death of Mattatiiias ... ..... 185 

The Triumph of Wojian 191 

Poems on the Slave Tradi: • 202 

Eclogues. The Convicts at Net South Wales . 210 
English Eclogues ^ . . 222 


Jaspar . . 2^(> 

Lord William Sfil 

St. Michael's Chair 201 

The Destruction of Jerusalem ....... 207 

The Spanish Armada ^ 209 

A Ballad showing how an Old Woman rode double 

and who rode before her 270 

The Surgeon's Warning 275 

Mary the Maid of the Inn , . 280 



DoNiCA 284 


The Spirit 293 

King Henry V. and the Abbot of Dreux .... 295 

Don CHRisTOVAL'a Advice 297 

King Charlemagne 299 

A Ballad of a Young Man 30'o 

The Lover's Eock 304 

Henry the Hermit 300 

The Cross Eoads 307 

The Well of St. Keyne 311 

The Pious Painter 313 

St. Juan Gualberto 317 

The Battle of Blenheim 327 

St. Romuald 329 

The King of the Crocodiles 331 

God's Judgment on a Bishop 333 

Bishop Bbuno 33(5 

The Old Man's Comforts 338 


Youth and Age 339 

The Ebb Tide 310 

The Pig 341 

Ode to a Pig 312 

The Holly Tree . . , 314 

lucretia 340 

To Recovery 347 

The Filbert ... - 348 

The Battle of Pultowa , . 349 

St. Bartholomew's Day 350 

The Complaints of the Poor 351 

To A Bee 353 

Metrical Letter from London 353 

The Victory 355 

To A Spider 356 

The Soldier's Fdneral 358 

Elegy on a Quid , 359 



Cool Eeflectionh 3C1 

Snuff 362 

To A Fbiend on his wish to Teavel 303 

The Death of Wallace 361 

To A Fbiekd 865 

The Oak of ouk Fathers 300 

Eemembbance SG7 

The Rose 309 

The Tbatellee's Return , 871 

Autumn 373 

HiSTOBY 373 

Stanzas on the 1st of Dec, 1793 . 374 

Stanzas on the 1st of Sept. 1794 370 

Wkitten on a Sunday Moesino 377 

On my own Miniature 378 

The Paupeb's Funeral 379 

On a Spaniel 380 

On a Landscape by Poussin 881 

Musings on a Scare-Crow 383 

To Contemplation 38-t 

To Hobeor 380 

To a Feiend 888 

The Mobning Mist ' . 389 

To the Burnie Bee 390 

The Dancing Beab 391 

Hymn to the Penates 393 

Sappho 400 

Translation of a Geeek Ode on Astronomy, by 

S. T, Colebidge . . , . 40-:? 

The Wife of Fergus 40.1 

The Soldieb's Wife . . . ^ 40T 

The Widow 407 

The Chapel Bell 403 

The Race of Banquo 409 

The Poet Perplext ^ 410 

Lewti, or the Circassian LovE-CHA^T ...--. 41i 



gooseberrv-pie .... 413 

The Killcrop 415 

The Huron's Address to the Dead 421 

The Old Chickasah to his Grandson 422 

The Peruvian's Dirge over the Body of his Father 423 

Song of the Chickasah Widow 424 

Song of the Araucans during a Thunder Storm . 42G 

Chimalpoca 427 

Lines Written in the ICth Century . , . . 429 

Parodied in the 18th Century 430 

Inscription for the Apartment in Chepstow Castlf., 
WHERE Henry Martin, thp. Eegicide, was Im- 
prisoned Thirty Years 431 

SONNETS 432—137 



I. Delia at Play 41'< 

II. To A Painter attempting Delia's Portrait . 447 
III. He proves the Existence of a Soul from his 

Love for Delia 448 

IV. The Poet expresses his feelings respecting 

A Portrait in Delia's Parlour 448 


I. The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's 

Pocket-handkerchief 449 

II. The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Ele- 

her SINGING 4D0 

III. The Poet expatiates on the beauty of Delia's 

Hair 451 

IV. The Poet relates how he stole a lock of 

Delia's Hair, and her anger 452 

FUNERAL SONG for the Princess Charlotte of Wales 453 


It has been well said, " that the Life of Robeut SouxnEY is 
a pictiire the very first sight of which elicits boundless 
satisfiiction ; frequent and very close inspection qualifies 
delight ; a last and parting look would seem to justify 
the early admiration." 

Eobert Southey was born on the 12th of August, 1774 ; 
through both his parents he descended from respectable 
families of the county of Somerset. His father was in 
business as a linendraper in Bristol, but though a man of 
the highest integrity, was unsuccessful in trade ; and the 
?are of young Southey in his childhood was imdertaken 
by his mother's maiden aunt, Miss Tyler. Of this lady, 
Southey, in his Autobiography, has drawn a very speaking 
portrait. She appears to have had a great j^assion for 
theatres and actors, and as the Bristol stage was frequently 
honoured by visits of the great actors of the day, they 
became Aisitors at Miss Tyler's, and at those times her ap- 
pearance and manners were those of the well-bred lady ; but 
at other times she lived in her kitchen, and her attire wa^ 
literally rags. But ragged as she might be, yet lier 
notions of uncleanness were rigid in the extreme; a chair 
used by one she thought an unclean person was sent to 
the garden to be aired ; and on one occasion, a man who 
had called on business, and had the temerity to scat 

A 2 


liimself in the lady's own chair, threw her into o paroxysm 
of wUd distress and despair ; and Southey tells us that she 
once buried a cup for six weeks in order to purify it from 
the lips of some one (no favourite, we suppose) who was 
considered dirty. With this oddity Southey lived till his 
sixth or seventh year, and to keep him from contact 
with dirt, he was not j^ermitted to haye ])laymates, nor to 
make any noise that might disturb the old lady. He had 
no propensity for boyish sports. However, as soon as he 
could read, he was furnished with the History of the Seven 
Champions of England, Goody Two-shoes, and much more 
such delectable literature for children, all which was 
splendidly bound in the flowered and gilt Dutch paper of 
former days. Trivial as this kind of reading may now 
appear, it laid the foundation of a love of books which 
grew with the child's growth and ceased not in age. As 
the boy accompanied his aunt before he was seven years 
old, he had been to the theatre more frequently than from 
the age of twenty till the day of his death. This fiimi- 
liarity with the drama of course directed his reading, so 
that by the time he was eight years old, he had read 
through Shakspeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher ; and at 
nine he set about a tragedy, the subject of which was the 
Continence of Scipio. He had in the meantime been sent 
to a small day-school in Bristol, and afterwards removed to 
another at Corstone, near Bath. So ai-dent was his pursuit 
of knowledge, that at thirteen he had mastered Spenser, 
and, through translations, Tasso and Ariosto, and become 
acquainted with Ovid and Homer, besides all the light 
literature of the day that came in his way. In 1787, 
when in his fourteenth year, Southey was sent to West- 
minster School, where he remained four years, when lie 


vas dismissed for contributing a sarcastic article on cor- 
poral punishment to a publication the boys had set on 
foot. In 1792 he returned to Bristol, having formed some 
most enduring friendships at Westminster: one was a Mi-. 
Grosveuor Bedford, and another 'Mi\ C. W. Wynn. By the 
latter an annuity of 160^. was for many years generously 
allowed Southey — in fact, until provision was made for 
him by the government. His father died shortly alter he 
had left Westminster, ruined and broken-hearted. 

The kindness of a maternal uncle, the Eev. INIr, Hill, 
supplied his father's place, and provided for entering him 
at Baliol College, Oxford, where he proceeded in 1793 ; it 
was his uncle's wish he shoidd go into the church, but 
Southey had no religious opinions to justify this: — he, 
however, was assiduous in his studies, and at first turned 
his attention to medicine, but the dissecting-room turned 
his stomach from that direction. At Easter, 1794, Cole- 
ridge, who had just abandoned Cambridge, came on a visit 
to Oxford, where his fame for extraordinary powers of 
conversation and his stupendous talents had preceded him. 
He was visited by the yomig Oxonians, more particularly 
those who were admirers of the French revolution, and 
among them the author of the Satire on corporal punisli- 
ment, who had gone to Oxford an honest republican. 
These young and ardent lovers of liberty formed a society 
among themselves, mutually addressing each other by 
the title of Citizen, and set wp a club to debate questions, 
meeting at each other's rooms. This Jacobinical assembly 
created great alarm among the heads of the university, 
and the more so, as the exemplary moral conduct of the 
members prevented notice being taken of their proceed- 
ings. Southey soon after abandoned his studies at tha 


university, and joined Coleridge at Bristol. The result of 
this intimacy was the suggestion of a wild scheme for the 
regeneration of society. In conjunction with Robert 
Lovell,a young quaker, Eobert Allen, George Burnett, and 
some few others, they formed a plan — worthy of Robert 
Owen — to establish a pantisocratical society on the banks 
of the Ohio, and there in the New World establish a com- 
munity on a thoroughly social basis. The intended 
colonists were all to marry, and as Southey had become 
acquainted with a family of the name of Fi-icker, in which 
tliere were three daughters of a marriageable age, it was pro- 
posed that Lovell should be united to the elder, that Cole- 
ridge should marry Sara, and Southey Edith. The ladies 
were to cook and perform all household work, and the 
men cultivate the land, everything being in common ; but 
as money — that huge evil, as Southey calls it — was needed, 
Lovell engaged to supply it. In this poetical paradise 
they were to live without either kings or priests, or any 
of the other evils of the Old World society, and to renew 
tlie patriarchal or golden age. However, Lovell's death 
shortly afterwards put an end to this grand scheme, which 
died where it was born— in the heads of its concoctors. 
Miss Tyler, when she became acquainted with her nephew's 
intended man-iage and his socialist opinions, shut the door 
in his face, and never opened it to him again. 

In 1795 was published a post 8vo volume of 125 pages: 
"Poems ; containing The Retrospect, Odes, Sonnets, Elegies, 
&c. By Robert Lovell, and Robert Southey, of Baliol 
College, Oxford. Printed by R. Cruttwell, Bath." At the 
end of the preface there is a note : the signature of i/jo/t, 
distinguishes the pieces of R. Southey ; Moschus, JL 


Southey, Coleridge, and Buruett lived together with 
great simplicity in Bristol, in 1795, and to obtain means 
for existence, they started as public lecturers, Southey on 
History, and Coleridge on Politics and Ethics; the lectures 
are said to have been well attended. Southey had two 
years before written Joan of Arc, an epic of considerable 
length, but had not means to get it printed. He however 
became acquainted with Joseph Cottle, a bookseller in 
Bristol, who, to his praise be it recorded, not only assisted 
Coleridge with money, but oflei^d fifty guineas for Joan of 
Arc, and fifty copies for the author's subscribers. Joan of 
Arc was pubHshed in 1796; "a work," says Mr. Hazljtt, 
"in which the love of liberty is inlialed like the breath of 
S]n-ing, mild, balmy, heaven-born— that is, full of fears, 
and virgin-sighs, and yearnings of affection after truth and 
■^ood, gushing warm and crimsoned from the heart." 

Soon after the sale of the copyright of his poems, 
Southey's uncle, the Eev. Islx. Hill, who held the appoint- 
ment of a chajjlain in Portugal, arrived in England. He 
found his nephew with but Httle belief in revealed religion, 
and with political sentiments of the wildest order. Actuig 
the part of a father, Mr. Hill proposed a visit to Portugal, 
to wean him from Avhat was supposed to be an imprudent 
attachment; and to gratify his mother, who urged the 
removal, Southey consented, but on the morning of the 
day of his departure, he was married to Edith Fricker. 
rhey parted immediately after the ceremony, and the wife 
retired, wearing her wedding-ring attached to a ribbon 
round her neck. After a stay of six months in Lisbon, 
Southey retm-ned, and, accompanied by his wife, M-ent to 
London, and entered himself a student at Gray's Inn, to 
bedn the study of the law, by the wish of his uncle, who 


had agreed to furnisli the required funds. After a year's 
torture, Southey gave up this — to him — irksome toih He 
had become an occasional contributor to the Monthly 
Magazine, and in conjunction with Charles Lamb, Hum- 
phrey Davy, Taylor of Norwich, and Coleridge, he pub- 
lished two volumes of poetry, under the title of Tlie 
Annual Anthology. In 1800-1 he again visited Portugal 
for the benefit of his health, accompanied by his wife ; and 
on his return at the latter end of 1801, through the interest 
of, we believe, Sir James Macintosh, he obtained the 
api)ointment of Private Secretary to the then Chancellor 
of the Exchequer in Ireland, with a salary of 400^. a year. 
On his arrival in Dublin, he not only found that in his 
office lie had nothing to do, but that the minister was so 
sensible of the fact, that he proposed that Southey should 
undertake the tuition of his son. This proposition Southey 
manfully rejected, and threw up his ajipointment a few 
months after. He returned to Bristol, and ere long 
obtained a connexion with Messrs. Longman and Pees, 
producing the romance of Amadis de Gaid, from a Spanish 
version, and his metrical romance of Thalahathe Destroyer. 
At this time, while struggling for himself, he learnt the 
forlorn condition of Mrs. Newton, sister of the unfortunate 
Chattel-ton, and to aid her, he, in conjunction with Mr. 
Cottle, undertook to i^ubllsh by subscription a complete 
edition of Chatterton's writings, and they were enabled by 
tills means to hand over 300Z. to the family. He had now 
settled himself at Greta, in Cumberland, where he resided 
to the end of his life : and here he afforded an asjdum for 
his wife's sister, Mrs. Lovell, and her child, who had been 
left without the slightest provision ; and the wife and 
children of Coleridge, whom he had in a waward mood 


deserted, Were saved much of the knowledge of their 
hardships by folding a home in the Sanctuary of Robert 
Southey. His life exhibits many traits of his ympathy 
for misfortune ; for in 1811, when William Taylor fell into 
distress, he offered to contribute a yearly 10^., and the same 
thing he did for John Morgan ; and in 1821 he directs his 
friend Bedford to transfer to ]\Ir. May, who had in early 
life rendered Southey substantial service, G251., in the 
3 per cents, — his whole savings, — and wishes it was more. 
When mentioning these circumstances, an able writer in the 
leading journal of our time says, — " If biography be not 
utterly worthless, these illustrations of Southey's character 
have an inestimable value. Look at him, pen in hand, the 
indefatigable day labourer in his literary seclusion, with no 
inheritance but his vigorous intellect, no revenue but such 
as his well-stored mind and matchless industry can furnish, 
perfect in the manifold relation of husband, brother, 
father, friend, and by his chosen labours delighting and 
instructing the world, as well as ministering to the daily 
happiness of his needy circle, — Look, we say, and confess 
that heroism is here which conqueroi's might envy." 

To another young and ardent poet — poor Henry Kirke 
White, whose volume had been most unmercifully attacked 
in a Eeview, Southey otfered his kind assistance, and 
White's early death enabled him to prove his sympathy in 
collecting the scattered fragments, and in a memoir vindi- 
sated his title to genius. In fact, Southey's correspondence 
exhibits numerous instances of his to all 
young aspirants for literary fame. 

After he had fairly settled himself down amongst the 
mountains, he set to work for the booksellers, and what 
with prose and verse, the result of his labours was really 


marvellous. In 1800, lie was at the same lime engaged in 
writing The History of Portugal, EsprieUci's Letters, The 
Chronicle of the Cid, and The Curse of Kehema. AVlien 
writing to Lis friend, Mr. Bedford, communicating the 
tasks he liad undertaken, he says, " I tell you I can't afford 
to do one thing at a time ; no, nor two neither ; and it's 
only by doing many things 1 continue to do as much ; for 
I cannot work long at anything without hurting myself, 
and I do everything by heats; then by the time I am tired 
of one my inclination for another is at hand." Whether 
his works succeeded or failed it was all the same; his 
courage or perseverance never deserted him. He religiously 
believed future generations would recognise his talents, 
and he continued his almost gigantic epics. 

In 1807 he \)YOi{\\CQ^ Specimens of tlte later English Poets, 
and Palmerin of England, a translation from the Por- 
tugiiese; and we learn that in the same year he had a 
proi)osal from Walter Scott to contribute to the Edinburgh 
Review. But Southey had some time before abandoned his 
democratic creed and taken up one diametrically opposite, 
and for the remainder of his life he became a most uncom- 
promising monarchist, and in his political opinions an 
extreme conservative. In his answer to Scott, Southey 
says, " To Jeffrey, as an individual, I shall ever be ready 
to show individual courtesy, but of Judge Jeffrey of the 
Edinburgh Review, I must ever think and sj^eak as of a 
bad pohtician, a worse moralist, and a critic, in matters of 
taote, equally incompetent and imjust." Scott, who was 
one of Southey's most sincere friends, knowing the large 
claims on his income, through Canning, had an opportmiity 
of offering Southey some appointment worth 300^. a-year, 
but that, as Avell as another oi a professor at one of the 


iiniveisilies, was declined. Soiithey had at this time a 
goveruiiient pension of 160^. a-year, for literary services ; 
but a more certain income was ojDened to him, in the well- 
paid remuneration provided by the Quarterly Review, which 
was set on foot, chieily at his instigation. 

In 1813, on the death of Mr. Pye, the offer of tlie aj)- 
pointment of Poet Laureate Avas made to Scott, but was 
by him declined ; at the same time he recommended Southey 
as the most competent, therefore upon Southey it was 

For the remainder of his life the labour of Southey was 
incessant, and by degrees the happiness of his home was 
flying away. First, he loses one child, of whom he was 
" foolishly fond ;" then another — his daughter marries, and 
his "best days are over;" and at last, his wife, Editli, who 
had for forty years been the light of his life, was placed in 
a lunatic asylum. Upon this latter event, writing to hia 
friend, Grosvenor Bedford, he says, " God, who has visited 
me with this affliction, has given me strength to bear it, 
and will, I know, sujjport me to the end, whatever that 
may be. . . . Mine is a strong heart. I will not say the 
last week has been the most trying of my life, but I will 
say that the heart which could bear it can bear anything." 

While suffering under this trying affliction, the ofier of 
u baronetcy was made him by Su" Robert Peel, then First 
Lord of the Treasury ; and at the same time a private letter, 
requesting Southey to tell him (Sir E. Peel) frankly how 
the minister could serve him. Southey, declining the 
proffered distinction, replied by a clear statement of his 
position: Sir Robert, without loss of time, attached his 
name to a warnmt. adding 300^. per annum to Southey 's 

xviii souTUEY. 

In 1837, his beloved wife, Etlith, who had returned to 
her home, died in a pitiable state, after three years' ajfflic- 
tion. After the death of his wife he became an altered 
man. He says, " There is no one to partake with me the 
recollections of the best and happiest portion of my life ; 
and for that reason, were there no other, such recollections 
must henceforth be purely painful, except when I connect 
them with the prospects of futurity." To divert his mind, 
his friends proposed a continental journey, which took 
place in 1838. On the 5th of June, 1839, he was married 
a second time to Miss Caroline Anne Bowles, a lady long 
well known in the literary world, as the author of " Ellen 
Fitz-Arthur, and other Poems," "Chapters in Church- 
yards," &c. ; Southey being then in his sixty-fifth year. 

Sovithey never recovered the loss of his wife Edith, and 
his friends could see that the vigour of his faculties was 
evidently now gone, and his melancholy decline became 
rapidly jirogressive : forty-five years' incessant literary toil 
tiad done its work — the candle was burnt to the socket — 
the brain was worn out. For the last year of his life it 
was an utter Uank. He died on the 21st of March, 1843, 
and was buried in Crossthwaite churchyard, where lie his 
beloved Edith and some children that preceded him. 

We have seen that in 1806 Southey had begun his 
History of Portugal, and his correspondence frequently 
mentions the progress of this achievement; every spare 
moment from work of the moment was devoted to this 
cherished object, from which he always expected permanent 
profit ; he laboured at it to the last, and it was left un- 


The history of Joan of Arc is one of those problems that 
render investigation fruitless. That she believed herself 
inspired, few will deny ; that she was inspired, no one will 
venture to assert ; and who can believe that she was her- 
self imposed on by Charles and Dunois? That she dis- 
covered the king when he disguised himself among the 
courtiers to deceive her, and that, as a proof of her mission, 
she demanded a sword from a tomb in the church of St. 
Catharine, are facts in which all historians agree. If this 
had been done by collusion, the maid must have known 
herself an impostor, and witli that knowledge could not 
have performed the enterprise she undertook. Enthusiasm, 
and that of no common kind, was necessary, to enable a 
young maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, 
to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the foremost, 
and to subdue with an inferior force an enemy then 
believed invincible. It is not possible that one who felt 
herself the puppet of a party, could have performed these 
things. The artifices of a court could not haA^e persuaded 
her that she discovered Charles in disguise; nor could they 
have prompted her to demand the sword which they might 
have hidden, without discovering the deceit. The maid, 
then, was not knowingly an impostor ; nor could she have 
been t^ie instrument of the court ; and to say that she 
believed herself inspired, will neither account for her 
singling out tlie king, or prophetically claiming the sword. 


After crowniug Cliai'les, slie declared that her mission was 
accomplished, and demanded leave to retire. Enthusiasm 
would not have ceased here ; and if they who imposed on 
hei-, could persuade her still to go with their armies, they 
couhl still have continued her delusion. 

This mysteriousness renders the story of Joan of Arc 
peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels and devils is 
not necessary to raise her above mankind ; she has no 
gods to lackey her, and insjiire liei' with courage, and heal 
her wounds: the Maid of Orleans acts wholly from the 
workings of her own mind, from the deej^ feeling ol 
inspiration. The palj^able agency of siiperior powers 
would destroy the obscui-ity of her character, and sink hei 
to the mere heroine of a fau-y tale. 

The alterations which I have made in the history arc 
foviT and trifling. The death of Salisbury is placed later, 
and of the Talbots earlier than they occuixed. As the 
battle of Patay is the concluding action of the poem, I 
have given it all the previous solemnity of a settled en- 
gagement. Whatever appears miracidous is historically 
true ; and my authorities will be found in the notes. 

It is the common fault of Epic poems that we feel little 
interest for the heroes they celebrate. The national 
vanity of a Greek or a Eoman might have been gratified 
by the renown of Achilles or JEueas ; but to engage the 
unprejudiced, there must be more of human feelings than 
is generally to be found in the character of a warrior. 
From this objection the Odyssey alone may be excepted. 
Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, and the 
afi'ections are enlisted on his side. The judgment must 
apj^laud the well-digested plan and splendid execution of 
the Iliad, but the heart always bears testimony to the 
merit of the Odyssey; it is the poem of nature, and its 
personages insj^ire love rather than command admiration. 
The good herdsman Eumgeus is worth a thousand heroes ! 


Homer is, indeed, the best of poets, for he is at once digni- 
fied and simple ; bnt Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, 
and Cowjjer has stripped him naked. 

Tliere are few readers who do not prefer Turnus to 
^neas ; a fugitive, susiJectcd of treason, who negligently- 
left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted her, and then forcibly 
took LaWnia from her betrothed husband. What avails 
a man's piety to the gods, if in all his dealings with men 
he prove himself a villain ? If we represent Deity as 
commanding a bad action, this is not exculpating the mau, 
but criminating the God. 

The ill chosen subjects of Lucan and Statius have pre- 
vented them from acquiring the popularity they would 
otherwise have merited ; yet in detached parts the formei- 
of these is, perhaps unequalled, certainly unexcelled. The 
French court honoured the poet of liberty by excluding 
him from the edition in Usum Delphini ; perhaps, for the 
same reason, he may hereafter be published in Usum 
Repiiblicse. I do not scruple to j^refer Statius to Virgil; 
with inferior taste, he appears to me to possess a richer 
and more j^owerful imagination ; his images are strongly 
conceived and clearly painted, and the force of his language, 
while it makes the reader feel, proves that the author felt 

The power of story is strikingly examplified in ihe 
Italian heroic poets. They please universally, even in 
translations, when little but the story remains. In the 
proportioning his characters, Tasso has erred : Godfrey 
is the hero of the poem, Rinaldo of the poet, and Taucred 
of the reader. Secondary characters should not be intro- 
duced, like Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a proces- 
sion ; neither should they be so prominent as to throw the 
principal into shade. 

The lawless magic of Ai-iosto, and the singular theme, 
as well as the singular excellence of Mill on, render it 


impossible to deduce any rules of epic poetry from these 
authors. So likewise witli Spenser, the favourite of my 
childhood, from whose frequent perusal I have always 
found increased delight. 

Against the machinery of Camoens,a heavier charge must 
be brought than that of profaneness or incongruity. His 
floating island is but a floating brothel, and no beauty can 
niaka atonement for licentiousness. From this accusation 
none but a translator would attempt to jiistiry him; but 
Camoens had the most able of translators. The Jiusiad, 
though excellent in parts, is uninteresting as a whole : it 
is read with little emotion, and remembered with little 
pleasure. But it was composed in the anguish of disap- 
pointed hopes, in the fatigues of war, and in a country 
far from all he loved ; and we should not forget, that as 
the poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate of 
men so he should be lanked among the most respectable. 
Neither his own country or Spain has yet produced his 
e(]ual : his heart was broken by calamity, but the spirit 
of integrity and independence never forsook Camoens. 

I have endeavoured to avoid what appears to me the 
common fault of epic poems, and to render the Maid of 
Orleans interesting. With this intent I have given her, 
not the passion of love, but the remembrance of subdued 
affection, a lingering of human feelings not inconsistent 
with the enthusiasm and holiness of her charactei'. 

The multitude of obscui-e epic writers coj^y with the 
most gross servility their ancient models. If a tempest 
occurs, some envious spirit procures it from the god of 
the winds or the god of the sea : is there a town besieged ? 
the eyes of the hero are opened, and he beholds the powers 
of heaven assisting in the attack ; an angel is at hand t<j 
heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in his last 
combat is seized with the sudden cowardice of Hector. 
Even Tasso is too often an imitator. But notwithstanding 


the censure of a satyrist, the name of Tasso will still be 
ranked among the best heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau 
only condemned him for the sake of an antithesis ; it is 
Avith such writers, as with those who affect point in their 
conversation, they will always sacrifice truth to the gratifi- 
cation of their vanity. 

I have avoided what seems useless and wearyiiig in 
other poems, and my readers will find no descriptions oi 
armour, no muster-rolls, no geographical catalogues, lion, 
tiger, bull, bear, and boar similes ; Phcebuses and Am-oras. 
Where in battle I have particularized the death ot an 
individual, it is not I hope like the common lists of killed 
and wounded; my intention has been to impress upon 
the reader's mind a feeling of the private wretchedness 
occasioned by the war systems of Europe. 

It has been established as a necessary rule for the epic, 
that the subject be national. To this rule I have acted 
in direct opposition, and chosen for the subject of my 
poem the defeat of the English. If among my readers 
there be one who can wish success to an unjust cause, 
because his country supported it, I desii-e not that man's 

On the 8th of May, the epoch of its deliverance, an 
annual fete is held at Orleans ; and monuments have been 
erected to the memory of the maid. Her family was 
ennobled by Charles; but it should not be forgotten in 
the history of this monarch, that, in the hour ot misfor- 
tune, he abandoned to her fate the woman who had saved 
his kingdom. 

Since the first publication of this poem, it has under- 
gone a long and laborious correction. Everything mira- 
culous is now omitted, and the reader who is acquainted 
with the former edition may judge by this circumstance 


the extent of the alterations. Some errors with regard 
to the costume of the time had escaped me : in this point 
the work is now, I trust, correct. The additional notes 
are numerous; they are inserted as authorities for the 
facts related in the text, and as explanatory to these 
readers who are not conversant with the ancient chronicles 
of this country; for we may be well read in Hume a id 
Ea])in, and yet know little of our ancestors. Whenever 1 
felt, or suspected an idea not to be original, I have placed 
the passage imderneath by which it was suggested. With 
respect to the occasional harshness of the versification, it 
must not be attributed to negligence or haste. I deem 
such variety essential in a long poem. 



Edith ! I brought thee late a humble gift, 

The songs of earlier youth ; it was a wreath 

With many an unripe blossom garlanded 

And many a weed, yet mingled with some floweri3 

That will not wither. Now, my love, I bring 

A worthier offering ; thou wilt value it. 

For well thou knowest it is a work that sooth'd 

Times of hard care and strange inquietude, 

With most sweet solace : and though to mine ear 

There is no music in the hollowness 

Of common praise, yet I am well content 

To think that I liave past in such employ 

The green and vigorous season of my mind, 

And hope that there are those in whom the song 

Has woke some not unprofitable thoughts. 



f h first §00i 

rhe Maid announces her mission to the Lord of Vaucouleur. Shr 
Oieparts for Chinon with Dunois. Narrative of the Maid. 

Theee was high feasting held at Vaucouleur, 

For old Sir Eobert had a noble guest. 

The Bastard^ Orleans; and the festive hom-s, 

Cheer'd with the Trouveur's meny minstrelsy, 

Pass'd lightly at the hospitable board. 

But not to shai-e the hospitable board 

And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had sought 

Su- Robert's haU; he came to rouse Lorraine, 

And glean v/hat force the wasting war had left 

For one last effort. Little had the war 

Left in Lon-aine, but age, and youth um-ipe 

For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids 

Of widowed loves. And now with this high guest 

The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing 

On what might profit France, and knew no hope. 

Despairing of his country, when he heard 

An old man and a maid awaited him 

In the castle hall. He laiew the old man well, 

His vassal Claude, and at his bidding Claude 

Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made, 

Bespake Sir Robert. 

" Good mj"- Lord, I como 
With a strange tale; I pray you pardon me 
If it should seem impertinent, and like 
An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid 
Did with most earnest words importune me. 
And with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart- 
I think that I could not have slept in peace 

J0A2f OF ARC. 

Denying what she sought. Her parents ma)cc 

A mock of her; — it is not well to mock 

The damsel, and altho' her mother bo 

My sister, yet in honesty I thinlc 

It is unldndly done to mock the Maid- 

Ani then her father Confessor, — he say3 

Shj is possess'd; indeed he knows her not. 

Possess'd ! my niece by evil sphits possess'd ! 

My darling ghl ! there never was a thought 

Of evil yet fomid entrance in her heai't. — 

I knew her, good my Lord, before her smile. 

Her innocent smUe, and bright black-sparkling eye 

Tliat talk'd before the tongue had leai'nt its office. 

Did tell me she did love me." 

Whilst he spaka 
Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd 
Of eighteen^ yeai's; there Avas no bloom of youth 
Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues 
Of health with lesser fascination tix'd 
The gazer's eye; for wan the Maiden was. 
Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell 
In the strong beauties of her countenance 
Something that was not earthly. 

" I have heard 
Of this your niece's malady," replied 
The Lord of Vaucoulem-; "that she frequents 
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude, 
Estranged ffom human kind and human caies 
V/itli loathing most like madness. It were best 
To place her with some pious sisterhood, 
Wlio duly morn and eve, for her soul's health 
Sohciting Heaven, may lilvchest remedy 
The stricken mind, or fi-enzied or possess'd." 
So as Sir Robert ceas'd, the Maiden cried, 
" I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am ! 
The hand of God is strong upon my soul, 
And I have wi-estled vainly with the Lord, 
And stubbornly, I fear me. I can saoe 
Tliis countrj^, sh ! I can deliver Prance ; 
Yea — I must save this country ! God is in mc — 
I speak not, thhik not, feel not of myself. 
He knew and sanctified me ere my birth. 
He to the nations hath ordained me, 
And unto whom He sends me, I must go. 


And that wliich He commands me, I must speak. 
And that which He shall will, I must perform. 
Most fearless in the fulness of my faith 
Because the Lord is with me !" 

At the first 
With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard 
The inspired Maid; but no-.v he in his heart 
Felt that mis^i^dving that precedes helief 
In what was disbelieved and scotf'd at late 
As folly. "Damsel!" said the Chief, methinks 
That it were wisely done to doubt this call, 
Haply of some ill spirit prompting thee 
To self-destruction," 

" Doubt !" the maid exclaiia'dj 
" It were as easy, when I gaze around 
On all this fiiir variety of things. 
Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth 
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt 
Creatmg wisdom ! when in the evening gale 
I breathe the mingled odours of the spring, 
And hear the wild wood melody, and hear 
The populous air vocal with msect life. 
To doubt God's goodness ! there are feelings, Ciiiefj 
Tliat may not lie; and I have oftentimes 
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul 

They listened to the Maid, 
And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois: 
" Wilt thou go with me. Maiden, to the king. 
And there announce thy mission?" Thus he said. 
For thoughts of politic craftiness arose 
Within him, and his unconfirmed faith 
Determiu'd to prompt action. She replied: 
" Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucoulour, 
That with such credence as prevents delay. 
He to the king might send me. Now, beseech ^-qu, 
Speed our depai-tui'e." 

Then Dunois address'd 
Sir Eobert: "Fare thee well, my friend and host! 
It were ill done to Hnger here when Heaven 
Has sent such sti-ange assistance. Let Avhat force 
Lorraine may yield to Chinou follow us; 
And with the tidings of this holy Maid, 
ilais'd up by God, till thou the country: soon 


The country shall awake as from the sleep 

Of death. Now, Maid ! depart we at thy will.** 

" God's blessing go \vith thee !" exclaim'd old Clauds 
" Good angels guard my gii-1 !" — and as he spake 
The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks, — 
" And if I do not live to see thee more, 
As sure I think I shall not, j'et sometimes 
JRemember thine old uncle. I have loved thee 
Even from thy childhood, Joan ! and I shall lose 
The comfort of mine age in losing thee. 
But God he with thee, Maid!" 

He had a heart 
Wai-m as a child's affections, and he wept. 
Nor was the Maid, although subdued of soul. 
Unmoved; but scon she calmed her, and bespake 
The good old man. " Now go thee to thine home. 
And comfort thee mine uncle, -with the thought 
Of what I am, for what high enterprise 
Chosen fi-om among the people. Oh, be sure 
I shall remember thee, in whom I found 
A parent's love, whei^ parents w- ere vmkind ; 
And when the ominous broodings of my soul 
Were scoff'd and made a mock of by all else, 
Tliose most mysterious feelings thou the while 
Still didst respect. Shall I forget these things ?" 
They pass'd without the gate, as thus she spake, 
Prepar'd for their departure. To her lips 
She press'd his hand, and as she press'd there fell 
A tear; the old man felt it on his heart. 
And dimly he beheld them on their steeds 
Spring up and go their way. 

So on they went; 
And now along the momitain's winduig path 
Upward they journeyed slow, and now they paus'd 
And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers 
Of Vaucouleiu- arose, in distance seen. 
Dark and distinct; below the castled height, 
Thro' fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse 
RoU'd glittering on. Domj-emi's cottages 
Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages. 
That in the evening traveller's weary mind 
Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of hom.e, 
Till his heart ached for rest. But on one spot, 


One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd. 
Her native Arc; embowered the hamlet lay 
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods. 
With all their infinite varieties. 
Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain 
Eose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves. 
And vine-j'ards in the greenest hue of spring. 
And streams, now hidden on their devious way, 
Now winding forth in light. 

The Maiden gazed 
Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye. 
" Oh what a blessed world were this !" she cried, 
" But that the great and honourable men 
Have seiz'd the earth, and of the heritage 
Which God, the Su-e of all, to all had given. 
Disherited their brethren ! happy those 
Who in the after-days shall live when Time 
Has spoken, and the multitude of years 
Taught wisdom ! Sure and certain though that hope. 
Yet it is sad to gaze upon a scene 
So very good, and think that Want and Guilt 
And Wretchedness are there ! unhappy France ! 
i^iercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes 
Kush o'er the land and desolate and kUlj 
Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan 
Accused Heaven's justice; — but the hour is come; 
God hath incluied his ear, hath heard the vsice 
Of mom-ning, and His anger is gone forth." 

Then said the Son of Oi'leans: " Holy Maid ! 
I would fain know, if blameless I may seek 
Such Imowledge, how the heavenly call was heard 
Fhst in thy walcen'd soul; nor deem in me 
Aught idly curious, if of thy past days 
I ask the detail. In the hour of age. 
If haply I survive to see this realm 
By thee deliver'd, dear will be the thought 
That I have seen the delegated Maid, 
And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heavea." 

"A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied, 
"Yet may it well employ the journeying hour; 
And pleasant is the memory of the past. 


*' Seest tliou, Sir Cliief, wtere yonder forest skirts 
The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows 
As on the fai-ther bank the distant towers 
Of Vaucouleiir ? there in the hamlet Arc 
My father's dwelling stands; a lowly hut. 
Yet nought of neediul comfort wanted it, 
For in Lorraine there lived no kinder lord 
Than old Sir Kobert, and my father Jaques 
In flocks and herds was rich. A toiling man. 
Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart 
Affection had no root. I never Icnew 
A parent's love; for harsh my mother was. 
And deem'd the cares that infancy demands 
Irksome, and Ul-repaid. Severe they were, 
And would have made me fear them, but my soid 
Possess'd the germ of steady fortitude. 
And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke 
And wrathful chastisement. Yet was the voice 
That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet 
To my young heart; how have I felt it leap 
With transport, when mine uncle Claude approach'd ! 
For he would place me on his knee, and tell 
The wondi-ous tales that childhood loves to hear. 
Listening with eager eyes and open lips 
In most devout attention. Good old man ! 
Oh, if I ever pom-'d a prayer to Heaven 
Unhallowed by the grateful thought of him, 
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it ! 
He was a parent to me, and his home 
Was mine, when, in advancing years, I found 
No peace, no comfort, in my father's house. 
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours. 
By day I drove my father's flock afield 
Aiid this was happiness. 

Amid these wOds 
Often to summer pasture have I driven 
The flock; and well I know these mountain wilds. 
And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream 
Is dear to memorj'. I have laid me down 
Eeside yon valley stream, that nj) the ascent 
Scarce sends the soimd of waters now, and watch'd 
The tide roll glittering to the noon-tide sun. 
And listened to its ceaseless murmm-mg. 


Till all was husli'd and tranquil in my soul, 
Fill'd with a strange and undefined deliglit 
That pass'd across the mind like summer cloudij 
Over the lake at eve: theii* fleeting hues 
The traveller cannot trace with memor\''s eye. 
Yet he remembers well how fan* they were, 
IIow very lovely. 

Here in solitude 
My soul was nurst, amid the loveliest scenes 
Of unpolluted natm-e. Sweet it was, 
As the white mists of morimig roll'd away. 
To see the mountain's wooded heights appear 
Dark in the early davv'n, and mark its slope 
Eich with the blossom'd furze, as the slant sun 
On the golden ripeness pour'd a deepening light. 
Pleasant at noon, beside the vocal brook 
To lie me down, and watch the floating clouds. 
And shape to Fancy's wild similitudes 
Their ever-vaiying forms; and oh, most sweet! 
To drive my flock at evening to the fold, 
And hasten to our little hut, and hear 
The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. 

"Amid the village playmates of my youth 
Was one whom riper years approved mj- friend ; 
A very gentle maid was Madelon. 
I loved her as a sister, and long time 
Her undivided tenderness possess'd. 
Till that a better and a holier tie 
Gave her one nearer friend ; and then my heart 
Partook her happiness, for never lived 
A happier pair than Ai-naud and his wife. 

"Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her j^outh 
Went Arnaud to the war. The mom was lair. 
Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerily. 
And all the fields look'd lovely in the spring; 
But to Domremi wi-etched was that day, 
For there was lamentation, and the voice 
Of anguish, and the deeper agony 
That spake not. Never \vill my heart forget 
The feelings that shot through me, when the sound 
Of cheerful music burst upon our ears 


Sudden, and from the arms that round their necks 
Hung close entwined, as in a last embrace. 
Friends, brethren, husbands went. 

More fi-equeut novr 
Sought I the converse o'f poor Madelon, 
For much she needed now the soothing voice 
Of friendship. Heavily the summer pass'd, 
To her a joj'less one, expecting still 
Some tidings from the war; and as at eve 
She with her mother by the cottage door 
Sat in the sunshine, I have seen her eye, 
If one appear'd along the distant path. 
Shape to the form she loved liis Hneaments, 
Her cheek faint flush'd by hope, that made her lieart 
Seem as it sunk within her. So the days 
And weeks and months pass'd on, and when the leaves 
Fell in the autumn, a most painl'ul hope 
That reason own'd not, that •mth erpectation 
Did never cheer h(;r as she rose at morn. 
Still lingered in her heart, and s^-ill at night 
Made disapix)intment dreadful. Winter came. 
But Amaud never from the war retm-n'd. 
He far away had perish'd; and when late 
The tidings of hisi certain death arriv'd. 
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow 
She sunk. Then woiild she sit and think all day 
Upon the past, and tallc of happiness 
That never would return, as tho' she found 
Best solace in the thoughts that minister 'd 
To sorrow: and she loved to see the sun 
Go down, because anol^-er day was gone. 
And then slie might retu'e to solitude 
And wakeful recollections, or perchance 
To sleep more weai-ying far than wakefulness. 
For in the visions of her heart she saw 
Her husband, saw him as escaped the war. 
To his own home retm'n'd. Thus day nor night 
Ueposed she, and she pined and pined away. 

" Bitter art thou to him that lives in rest, 
O Death ! and grievous m the hour of joy 
The thought of thy cold dwelUng; but thou comeut 
]\Iost welcome to the wretched ; a best Mend 
To him that wanteth one; a comforter. 


For in the grave is peace. By the bed-side 
Of Madelon I sat : when sure she felt 
The hour of her deliverance drawing near, 
I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, 
I had her latest look of earthly love, 
I felt her hand's last pressure. Son of Orleans 1 
I would not wish to live to knov/ that hour. 
When I could think upon a dear friend dead. 
And weep not. 

I rememher, as her corse 
Went to the grave, there was a lark sprung up. 
And soaring in the sunshine, caroll'd loud 
A joyful song; and in mine heart I thought. 
That of the midtitude of beings, man 
Alone was wretched. 

Then my soul awoke. 
For it had slumber'd long in happiness, 
And never feeling misery, never thought 
Wliat others suffer. I, as best I might. 
Solaced the keen regret; of Elinor; 
And much my cares avail'd, and much her son'.s. 
On whom, the only comfort of her age. 
She centred now her love. A younger bii-tli, 
Aged nearly as myself, was Theodore, 
An ardent youth, avIio with the kindest cares 
Had sooth'd his sister's sorrows. We liad knelt 
By her death-bed together, and no bond 
In closer union knits two human hearts 
Than fellowship in grief. 

It chanc'd as once 
Beside the fii-e of Elinor I sat. 
The night was comfortless; the loud blast howl'd; 
And as we drew around the social hearth, 
We heard the rain beat hard; driven by the storm 
A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light. 
We heapt the fire : the friendly board was spread : 
The bowl of hospitality went round. 
' The storm beats hard,' the stranger cried; * safe hous'd, 
Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain. 
I too were well content to dwell in peace, 
Resting my head upon the lap of Love, 
But that my country calls. When the winds roar, 
Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers. 
And think of Com-ade.' 


10 JOAN OF AnC. 

Theodore replied, 
•Success go witli thee ! Something I have kiwwu 
Of war, and of its dreadful ravages; 
My soul was sick at such ferocity: 
And I am well content to dwell in peace, 
Albeit inglorious, thanlcing that good God 
Who made me to be happy.' 

'Did that God,* 
Cried Conrade, ' form thy heart for happiness^ 
Wlien Desolation royally careers 
Over thy wretched country ? Did that God 
Form thee for peace when Slaughter is abroad, 
When her brooks run with blood, and Rape and ]\rurdei 
Stalk thro' her flaming towns? Live thou in peace. 
Young man! my heart is human: I do feel 
For what my brethren suffer.' 

As he spake, 
Such mingled passions charactered his lace 
Of fierce and terrible benevolence, 
That I did tremble as I listen'd to him. 
Then in mine heart tumultuous thoughts arose 
Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild. 
And vast, yet such they were as made me pant 
As though by some divinity possess'd. 

" ' But is there not some duty due to those 
We love?' said Theodore; and as he spake 
His wai'm cheek crimson'd. ' Is it not most right 
To cheer the evening of declining age. 
With filial tenderness repaying thus 
Parental cai"e ?' 

' Hard is it,' Conrade cried, 
' Ay, veiy hard, to part from those we love; 
And I have suifer'd that severest pang, 
I have left an aged mother; I have left 
One, UDon whom my heart has centred all 
Its dearest, best affections. Should I live 
'Till France shall see the blessed hour of Peace, 
I shall return: my heart will be content, 
Mv highest duties will be well discharg'd. 
And I may dare be happy. There are those 
Who deem these thoughts wild fancies of a mind 
Strict beyond measure, and were well content. 
If I should soften down my rigid nature 


Eveu to inglorious ease, to honour me. 
But pure of heart and high of self-esteem 
I must be honom-ed by myself: all else, 
The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind. 

So saying, fi-ora his belt he took 
The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to liitu 
And, wistless what I did, half from the sheatli 
Drew the well-temper'd blade. I gazed upon it, 
And shuddering as I felt its edge, exclaun'd, 
' It is most horrible with the keen sword 
To gore the finely-fibred human frame ! 
I could not strike a lamb.' 

He answer'd me, 
' Maiden, thou hast said well. I could not strike 
A lamb. But when the invader's savage fury 
Spares not grey age, and mocks the infant's shriek 
As he does writhe upon his cursed lance. 
And forces to his foul embrace the wife 
Even on her murder'd husband's gasping corse ! 
Almighty God ! I should not be a man 
If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling 
Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. 
Think well of tliis, yovmg man !' he cried, and seiz'd 
The hand of Theodore; ' think well of this. 
As you are human, as you hope to live 
In peace, amid the dearest joys of home; 
Think well of this! You have a tender mother; 
As you do wish that she may die in peace, 
As you would even to madness agonize 
To hear this maiden call on you in vain 
For aid, and see her di-agg'd, and hear her scream 
In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful arms. 
Think that there are such horrors ;^ that even now. 
Some city flames, and haply as in Eoan, 
Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breaist 
Yet hangs for food.'* Oh God ! I would not lose 
These horrible feelings tho' tliey rend my heax-t.' 

" When we had all betaken us to rest. 
Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolv'd 
The high-soul'd wai-rior's speech. Then Madelon 
Rose in remembrance; over her the grave 
Had closed J her sorrows were not register'd 


In the jolls of Fame : but when the tears run down 

The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard 

In Heaven against the oppressor ? will not God 

In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break 

The sceptre of the wicked? Thoughts like these 

Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day 

I slept ; nor then reposed my heated brain, 

For visions rose, sent as I do believe 

From the Most High. I saw a high-tower'd town 

Hemmed in around, with enemies begirt. 

Where Famine, on a heap of carcases. 

Half envious of the unutterable feast, 

Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore. 

I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp, 

And there was revehy: the loud lewd laugh 

Burst on my ears, and I beheld the chiefs 

Even at theh feast plan the device of death. 

My soul grew sick within me : then methought 

From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempcsta, 

A giant arm bm'st forth, and dropt a sword 

That pierced like lightning thro' the midnight air. 

Then was there heia'd a voice, which in miae ear 

Shall echo, at that horn- of dreadful joy 

When the pale foe shaU wither in my rage. 

" From that night I could feel my burthen'd soul 
Heaving beneath incumbent Deity. 
I sat in silence, musing on the days 
To come, unheeding and unseeing all 
Ai'ound me, in that di-eaminess of soul 
When every bodily sense is as it slept, 
And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard 
Strange voices in the evenuig wind; strange forms 
Dimly discovered throng'd the twilight air. 
They wondered at me who had known me once 
A cheerful, careless damsel. I have seen 
Mine uncle gaze upon me wistfully, 
A heaviness upon his aged brow, 
And in his eye such meaning, that my heart 
Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all 
The mighty futui-e labouring in my breast. 
But that methought the hour was not yet come^ 

*•■ At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe 


Wall'd in from human succour; to the event 
All look'd with fear, for there the fate of France 
Hung in the balance. Now my troubled soul 
Grew more disturb'd, and shumiing every eye, 
I loved to wander where the forest shade 
Frown'd deepest; there on mightiest deeds to brood 
Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heai't 
Throb loud: anon I paused, and in a state 
Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind. 

" There is a fountain in the forest, call'd 
The fountain of the Fames i^ when a child. 
With most delightful wonder I have heard 
Tales of the Elfin tribe that on its banl^s 
Hold midnight revehy. An ancient oak, 
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside; 
Alone it stands, upon a gi-een grass plat, 
By the woods bounded like some little isle. 
It ever hath been deem'd their favourite tree;' 
They love to lie and rock upon its leaves. 
And bask them in the moonshine. Many a time 
Hath the woodman shown his boy where the dark round 
On the green-sward beneath its boughs, bewrays 
Their nightly dance, and bade him spare the tree. 
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place 
And made it holy; and the villagers 
Would say that never evil thing approached 
TJnpunish'd there. The strange and fearful pleasuie 
That fiU'd me by that solitary spring, 
Ceas'd not in riper years; and now it woke 
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe. 

_" Lonely the forest spring: a rocky hill 
Rises beside it, and an aged yew 
Bursts from the rifted crag that overbrows 
The waters; cavern'd there, unseen and slow 
And silently they well. The adder's tongue, 
Eich with the wi-inkless of its glossy glen, 
Hangs down its long lank leaves, whose wavy dip 
Just breaks the tranquil surface. Ancient woods 
Bosom the quiet beauties of the place, 
Nor ever sound profanes it, save such sounds 
As Silence loves to hear, the passing wind, 
Or the low mm-muring of the scarce-heard stream. 


" A blessed spot ! oh, Low my soul enjoy'd 
Its holy quietness, with what delight, 
Escaping humankind, I hastened there 
To solitude and freedom ! Thitherward 
On a spring eve I had betaken me, 
And there I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds 
Gather before the wind, the rising wind, 
Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last, 
Seem'd as they rock'd my senses. Soon the niglit 
Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell 
Heavy; anon with tempest rage the storm 
Howl'd o'er the wood. Methought the heavy rain 
Fell with a grateful coolness on my head, 
And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rush 
Of winds that mingled with the ibrest roar. 
Made a wild music. On a rock I sat. 
The glory of the tempest fill'd my soul. 
And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flasli 
Hung durable in heaven, and to mine eye 
Spread the grey forest, all remembrance left 
My mind, annihilate was every thought, 
A most full quietness of strange delight; 
Suspended all my powers; I seem'd as though. 
DLflused into the scene. 

At length a light 
Approach'd the spring; I saw my uncle Claude; 
His grey locks dripping with the midnight storio. 
He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried, 
' My God ! my child is safe !' 

I felt his words 
Pierce in my heart; my soul was overcharged; 
I fell upon his neck and told him all; 
God was withm me; as I felt I spake, 
And he believed. 

Ay, Chieftain, and the world 
Shall soon believe my mission ; for the Lord 
Will raise up indignation, and pour out 
His wrath. «"d they shall nerish who onnre-^s.*' 

JOAi; OF ARa 15 

%\t |u0nlr |i0oL 

Duaolii and the Maid rest at a cottage. Their host speaks jf the battle 
of Azincour, aud the siege of Koan. 

Anb now, beneatli tlie horizon westering slow, 

Had sunk the orb of day: o'er all the vale 

A purple softness spread, save where the tree 

Its giant shadow stretch'd, or winding stream 

Mirror 'd the light of heaven, still traced distinct 

Wlien twilight dimly shrouded all beside. 

A grateful coolness freshen'd the calm air, 

And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song 

Sung shriU and ceaseless, as the dews of night 

Descended. On their way the travellers wend. 

Cheering the road with converse, tiU far off 

They mark a cottage taper's glimmeruig light 

Gleam tlirough the embower'd gloom: to that they tuna. 

An aged man came forth ; his thin gTey locks 

Waved on the night breeze, and on his shrunli face 

The characters of ago were AVTitten deep. 

Them, louting low with rustic courtesy, 

He welcom'd in ; on the white-ember'd hearth 

Heapt up fresh fuel; then, with friendly care. 

Spread out the homely board, and fill'd the bowl 

With the red produce of the vine that arched 

His evening seat; they of the plain repast 

Partook, and quaif'd the pure and pleasant bowi, 

" Strangers, your fare is homely," said theii' hosl 
" But such it is as we poor countrymen 
Earn with hard toU: in faith, ye are welcome to iti 
I love a soldier ! and at sight of one 
My old heart feels as it were young again. 
Poor and decrepit as I am, my arm 
Once grasp' d the sword full fii-mly, and my limbs 
Were strong as thine, sir warrior ! God be witli thee, 
And send thee better fortune than old Bertram ! 
I would that I were young again, to meet 
These haughty English in the field of fight' 


Such as I was when on the fatal plain 
Of Azincour I met them." 

" Wert thou, then, 
A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat ?" 
Exclaim'd the Bastard. " Didst thou know the chief 
Of Orleans?" 

" Know him !" the old veteran cried; 
" I saw him, ere the hloody fight began. 
Riding from i-ank to rank, his beaver up. 
The long lance quivering in his mighty gi'asp. 
Full was his eye, and fierce, yet beaming still 
On all his countrymen cheerful and mild. 
Winning aU hearts. Looking at thee, sir knight, 
Methinks I see him now; such was his eye. 
So mUd in peace; such was his manly brow. 
Beshrew me, but I weep at the remembrance." 
" Full was his eye," exclaimed the Bastard Son 
Of Orleans, " yet it beamed benevolence. 
I never yet saw love so dignified ! 
There lived not one his vassal, but adored 
The good, the gallant (..'hief. Amid his halls 
High blazed the hospitable hearth; the pilgrim 
Of other countries, seeing his high towers. 
Rejoiced, for he had often heard of Orleans. 
He lives, my brother ! bound in the hard chain. 
He lives most wretched." 

The big tear roU'd down 
The warrior's cheeks. " But he shall live, Dunoia,"' 
Exclaim'd the mission'd Maid; " but he shall live 
To hear good tidings; hear of liberty. 
Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm 
Achiev'd in hard-fought battle. He shall live 
Happy: the memory of his prison'd years 
Shall heighten all his joys, and his grey hairs 
Go to tre grave in peace." 

" I would fain live 
To see that day," replied their aged host. 
*' How would my heart leap once more to behold 
The gallant, generous chieftain ! I fought by him 
When all the hopes of victory were lost. 
And down his batter'd arms the blood stream'd fast 
From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd us iii. 
Fierce in unhoped-for conquest: all around 
Our dead and dymg counti'ymeu lay heap'd; 


Yet still he strove ; — I wondered at his valour! 
'I'heve was not one who on that fatal day 
Fought bravelier." 

" Fatal was that day to France," 
Exclaim'd the Bastard ; " there Alencon died, 
Valiant in vain ; and he, the haughty chief, 
D'Albert, who, rashly arrogant of strength. 
Impetuous rushed to ruin. Brabant fell, 
Vaudemont, and ]\Iarle, and Bar, and Faquenber^, 
Her noblest warriors ; daring in despair 
Fought the fierce foe; ranks IjII on ranks before liiom; 
The prisoners of that shameful day out-sunuu'd 
Their victors!"'' 

" There are those," old Bertram cried, 
Who for his deeds will honour Henry's name. 
That honour that a conqueror may deserve 
He merits, for right vahantly he fought 
On that disastrous day. Nor deem tliou, Chief, 
That cowardice disgraced the sons of France ; 
They, by then- leaders' arrogance led on 
With heedless fury, found all numbers vain, 
All efforts fruitless there; and hadst thou seen, 
Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye 
Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid ; 
From his hersed^ bowmen how the arrows fled 
Thick as the snow flakes, and with lightning force ? 
Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a Ciue' 
]\Iight never be subdued. 

But when the field 
Was won, and those who had escaped the carnage 
Had yielded up their arms, it was most foul 
To glut on the defenceless'-' prisoners 
The blunted sword of conquest. Girt around 
I to their mercy had surrendered me, 
When lo ! I heard the dreadful groan of death. 
Not as amid the fray, when man met man 
And in fair combat gave the mortal blow ; 
Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound, 
Saw their stern victors draw again the sword, 
And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hand;?, 
And bade them think upon their plighted faith, 
And pray'd for mercy in the name of God, 
In vain: the king^" had bade them massacre ; 
And in their helijless prisoners' naked breasts 


They drove the swoi-d. Then I expected death. 

And at that moment death was terrible ; 

For the heat of fight was over : of my home 

I thought, and of ray wife and little ones, 

Jn bitterness of heart. The gallant man, 

Whose by the chance of war I had become, 

Had pity, and he loos'd my hands, and said, 

* Frenchman! I would have killed thee in the battle, 

But my arm shrinks at murder! Get thee hence.' 

It was the will of Heaven that I should live, 

Childless and old, to think upon the past, 

And wish that I had perish'd!" 

Tlie old man 
"Wept as he spake. ** Ye may perhaps have heard 
Of the hard siege so long by Eoan eudurd. 
I dwelt there, strangers ; I had then a wife, 
And I had children tenderly beloved, 
Who I did hope should cheer me in old age 
And close mine eyes. The tale of misery 
Mayhap were tedious, or I could relate 
Much of that dreadful siege." 

The Maid replied, 
Anxious of that devoted town to learn. 
Thus then the veteran : 

" So by Heaven preserved, 
From that disastrous plain of Azincour," 
I speeded homewards and abode in peace. 
Henry ,'2 as wise as brave, had back to England 
Led his victorious army ; well aware 
That France was mightj^, that her warrior sons. 
Impatient of a foreign victor's sway, 
!Might rise impetuous, and with multitudes 
Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd. 
For the proud Barons in their private broils 
Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home, 
And, with the little I possess'd content, 
Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was 
To see my children, as at eve I sat 
Beneath the vine, come clustering round my knee, 
That they might hear again the oft-told tale 
Of the dangers I had past: their little eyes 
Did with such anxious eagerness attend 
The tale of lite preserved, as made me feel 
Life's value. Mj poor children ! a hard fat» 


Had they ! But oft and bitterly I wish 

That God had to his mercy taken me 

In childhood ; for it is a heavy thing 

To linger out old age in loneliness! 

Ah me! when war the masters of mankind, 

Wo to the poor man ! If he sow the field, 

He shall not reap the harvest; if he see 

His blooming children rise around, his heart 

Aches at the thought that they are multijilied 

To the sword! Again from England the fierce foe 

Riish'd on our ravaged coasts, in battle bold 

Savage in conquest, their victorious king 

Swept like the desolating tempest round. 

Dambieres submits; on Caen's subjected wall 

The flag of England waved. Eoan still remain'd, 

Embattled B.oan, bulwark of Normandy; 

Nor unresisted round our massy walls 

Pitched they their camp. I need not tell, air knight, 

How oft and boldly on the invading host 

We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth, 

For many were the warrior'-' sons of Roan, 

O'er all that gallant citizen was famed, 

For virtuous hardihood pre-eminent, 

Blanchard. He, gathering round his countrymen. 

With his own courage kindling every breast. 

Had bade them'^ vow before Almighty God 

Never to yield them to the usurping foe 

While yet their arms could lift the spear, while yet 

Life was, to think of every pledge that man 

Most values. To the God of Hosts we vow'd ; 

And we had baffled the besieging power. 

But our cold-hearted foeman drew around 

His strong entrenchments. From the watch-tower's to] j 

In vain with fearfal hearts along the Seine 

We strain'd the eye, and every distant wave 

That m the sunbeam glitter'd, fondly thought 

The white sail of supply. Ah mo! no more 

Rose on our aching sight the food-fraught bark ; 

For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe 

Had made a league with Famine.'^ How my heart 

Bunk in me when at night I carried home 

The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal ! 

Fou know not, strangers! what it is to see 

The asking eve of hunger! 


" Still we strove, 
Expecting aid ; nor longer force to force, 
Valour to valour in the fight oppos'd, 
But to the exasperate patience of the foe, 
Desperate endurance. Though with Christian zeal 
Ursino would have ponr'd the balm of peace 
Into our wounds, Ambitiou's ear, best pleas'd 
With the War's clamour and the groan of Death, 
Was deaf to prayer. Day after day fled on ; 
We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls 
Could we behold the savage Irish Kernes,'" 
Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptised, 
Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous shouts 
With the moan of weary flocks, and the piteous luw 
Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp 
Scattering abundance ; while the loathliest food 
We prized above all price, while in our streets 
The dying groan of hunger, and the scream 
Of famishmg infants echoed, and we heard. 
With the strange selfishness of misery, 
We heard and heeded not. 

Thou wouldst have cleem''. 
Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice. 
Young warrior! hadst thou seen our meagre limbs, 
And pale and shrvmken cheeks, and hollow eyes ; 
Yet still we struggled nobly! Elan chard still 
Spake of the savage fury of the foe, 
Oi Harfleur's wi'etched race, cast on the world'^ 
Houseless and destitute, while that fierce king 
Knelt at the altar,'* and with impious prayer 
Gave God the glory, even while the blood 
That he had shed was reeking up to Hea\'en. 
He bade us think what mercy they had found 
Who }'ielded on the plain of Azincour, 
And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him. 
In cold blood'^ murder'd. Then, his scanty food 
Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us 
Bear with our miseries cheerly. 

Thus distress'd 
Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed 
Women and children, the iufirm and old. 
All who were useless in the work of war. 
Should forth and find their fortunes. Age, that niake;.' 
The joys and sorrows of the distant years 
Like a half-reiuembered dream vet on my heart 


Leaves deep impress'd the horroi-s ot that hour. 

Tlien as our widow wives chmg rouud our necks, 

And the deep sob of anguish interrupted 

'I'he prayer of parting, even the pious priest, 

As lie implored his God to strengthen us, 

And told us we should meet again in heaven, 

He groan'd and curs'd in bitterness of Jieart 

That merciless man. The wretched crowd pass'd en : 

My wife — my children — thro' the gates they pass'd, 

Then the gates clos'd. — Would I were in my grave, 

That I might lose remembrance. 

Wliat is man, 
That he can hear the groan of wretchedness 
And feel no fleshly pang ! ^Vliy did the All-Good 
Create these warrior scourges of mankind, 
These who deliglit in slaughter ? I did think 
There was not on this earth a heart so hard 
Could hear a faraish'd woman cry for bread, 
And know no pity. As the outcast train 
Drew near, the English monarch bade his troops 
Force-" back the miserable multitude. 
They drove them to the walls — it was the depth 
Of winter — we had no relief to grant. 
The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain ; 
The mother i>li'.aded for her dying child. 
And they felt no remorse !" 

The mission'd Maid 
Starts from her seat — " The old and the infirm, 
The mother and her babes ! — and yet no lightning 
Blasted this man !" 

" Ay, lady," Bertram cried ; 
" And when we sent the lierakl to implore 
His mercy on the helpless, he relax'd 
His stern f;ice into savage merriment. 
Scoffing their agonies. On the high wall 
I stood and mark'd the miserable outcasts, 
And every moment thought that Henry's heart, 
Hard as it was, must feel. All night I stood — 
Their deep groans sounded on the midnight gale ; 
Fainter they grew, for the cold wmtry wind 
Blew bleak ; fainter they grew, and at the last 
All was still, save that ever and anon 
Some mother shriek'd o'er her exj^iring child 
The shriek of frenzying anguish. 

From that hour 


On all the busy turmoil of the world 
I gaz'd with strange indifference ; bearing want 
With the sick patience of a mind worn out. 
Nor-' when the traitor yielded up our town, 
Ought heeded I as through our ruin'd streeta, 
Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcases, 
Pass'd tGri long pomp of triumph. One keen paag 
I felt, when by that bloody king's command 
The gallant Blanchard died. Calmly he dieu, 
A,nd as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God 
That he had done his duty. 

I survive, 
A solitary, friendless, wretched one, 
Knowing no joy save in the faith I feel 
That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires. 
And soon repose there, where the wicked cease 
From troubling, and the wediy are at rest." 

" And happy," cried the delegated Maid, 
" And happy they, who in that holy faith 
Bow meekly to the rod ! A little while 
Shall they endure the proud man's contumely, 
The hard wrongs of the great. A little while, 
Though shelterless they feel the Avintry wind. 
The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave. 
And all beneath be peace. But wo to those, 
Wo to the mighty ones, who send abroad 
Their ti'ain'd assassins, and who give to Fury 
The ilaming firebrand ; these indeed shall live 
The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song ; 
But they have their reward : the innocent blood 
Steams up to Ileaven against them. — God shall hear 
The widow's groan." 

" I saw him," Bertram cried, 
" Ifenry of Azincour, this conqueror-king. 
Go to his grave. The long procession past 
Slowly from town to town, and when I heard 
The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave 
A pompous shade, and the high torches glare 
In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light, 
I thought what he had been on earth who now 
Was gone to his account, and blest my God 
I was not such as he !" 

So spake the old man, 
And they betook them to their homely rest. 


Dunois and the Maid arrive at Cliiiion. Dimois announces thvj mission 
of Joan. Despondency and incredulity of the King. Slie discovers 
and addresses him. Charles couveues the Doctors of Theology, 
i'liey examine the Maid. 

Fair dawn'd the morning, and the early siin 
Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam, 
And up the travellers rose, and on their way 
Hasten'd, their dangerous way, thro' fertile tracks 
The waste of war. They pass'd the Auserrois ; 
The autumnal rains had beaten to the eartU 
The unreap'd harvest, from the village church 
No even-song bell was heard, the shepherd's dog 
Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there Wfis now 
No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth 
"Where he had slumber'd at his master's feet 
The rank weed flourish'd. Did they sometimes find 
A welcome, he who welcomed them was one 
Who lingered in the place where he was born, 
For that was all that he had left to love. 
They past the Yonue, tliey past the rapid LoiriJ, 
Still urging on their way with cautious speed, 
Shunning Auxerre and Bar's embattled wall 
And Eomorantin's towers. 

So journeying on. 
Fast by a spring, that welling at his feet 
With many a winding crept along the mead, 
A knight they saw, who at his plain repast 
Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow. 
Approaching near, the Bastard recognis'd 
The gallant friend of Orleans, the brave chief 
Du Chastel ; and, the mutual greeting pass'd. 
They, on the streamlet's mossy bank reclin'd, 
Paus'd on their way, the frugal fare partook, 
And drank the running waters. 

"Art thou bound 
For the Court, Dunois I" exclaimed the aged knight; 


" I deem'd thee far aw.-iy, coop'd in the walla 
Of Orleans ; a hard siege her valiant sons 
Right loyally eudiu-e 1" 

" I left the town," 
Dunois replied, "thinking that my prompt speed 
Might seize the hostile stores, and with fresh lorce 
Re-enter. Fastoffe's better fate prevail'd. 
And from the field of shame my maddening hors: 
Bore me, for the barb'd arrow gored his flank. 
Vatigued and laint with that day's dangerous toil, 
My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak hand 
Clieek'd I the powerless rein. Nor aught avail'd 
"When heal'd at length, defeated and alone 
Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine 
I sought to raise new powers, and now, return'd 
With strangest and most unexpected aid 
Sent by high Heaven, I seek the Court, and thence 
Tc that beleaguered to%vn shall lead such force, 
That the proud English in their fields of blood 
Shall perish." 

" I too," Tanneguy replied, 
" May haply in the battle once again 
Serve him my royal Master ; in his cause 
]My youth adventur'd much, nor can my age 
Find better close than in the clang of arms 
To die for him whom I have liv'd to serve. 
Thou art for the Court ; Son of the Chief I lov'd ! 
Be wise by my experience. He who seeks 
Court favour, ventures like the boy who leans 
O ver the brink of some high precipice 
To reach the o'er-hanging fruit. Thou seest me here 
A banish'd man, Dunois ! so to appease 
The proud and powerful Richemont, who, long time 
Most sternly jealous of the royal ear, 
With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire, 
Rolls the black carcase of his sti^angled foe. 
Now confident of strength, at the king's feet 
He stabs the king's best I'riends, and then demands, 
As with a conqueror's imperious tone. 
The post of honour. Son of that lov'd chief 
Whose death my arm avenged, may thy day-:; 
Be happy ; serve thy country in the field, 
And in the hour of peace, amid thy friends 
Dwell tliou without ambition." 


So he spake. 
i5nt when the Bastard told the wondrous tale, 
How iuterposing Heaven had its high aid 
Vouchsafed to France, the old man's eyes tlash'd fire, 
And rising from the bank, the stately steed 
That grazed beside he mounts. " Farewell, Dunois, 
Thou, too, the delegate of Heaven, ftirewelll 
I go to raise the standard ! we shall meet 
At Orleans." O'er the plain he spuri-'d his steed. 

They journey on their way till Chinon's towers 
Rose to the distant view ; imjDerial seat 
Of Charles ; for Paris, with her servile sons, 
A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, 
Bow'd to the invader's yoke, since that sad hour^-* 
When Faction o'er her streets with giant stride 
Strode terrible, and Murder and Revenge, 
As by the midnight torches' lurid light 
They mark'd their mangled victims writhe convuls'd, 
Listen'd the deep death-groan. Ill-fated scene ! 
Thro' many a dark age drenched with innocent blood. 
And one day doom'd to know the damning guilt 
Of Brissot murder'd, and the blameless wife 
Of Roland ! Martyr'd patriots, spirits pure, 
"Wept by the good ye fell ! Yet still survives, 
Sown by your toil, and by your blood manur'd. 
The imjDerishable seed ; and now its roots 
Spread, and strike deep, and soon shall it become 
That Tree beneath whose shade the sons of men 
Shall pitch their tents in peace. 

In Paris now 
Triumphed the Invader. On an infant's head 
Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne^ 
And factious nobles bow'd the subject knee 
In homage to their king, their baby lord, 
Their cradled miehty one ! 

" Belov'd of Heaven," 
So spake the Son of Orleans as they pass'd, 
" Lo these the walls of Chinon, this the abode 
Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry 
He of his armies vanquish'd, his fair toA\'ns 
Subdued, hears careless, and prolongs the dance. 
And little marvel I that to the cares 
Of empire still he turns the unwilling ear; 


For loss on loss, upon defeat, 

His strong holds taken, and his bravest chiefd 

Or dead or captnr'd, ;ind the hopes of youth 

All blasted, have subdued the royal mnid, 

Uudisciplin'd in Fortitude's stern school. 

So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtues !" 

The mission'd maid replied, "Go thou, Dunob, 
A nnounce my mission to the royal ear. 
I on the river's winding banks the while 
Would roam, collecting for high enterprise 
My thoughts, troubled though firm. He who essays 
Achievements of vast import, will perforce 
Feel his heart heave ; and in my breast I feel 
Such perturbation." 

On the banks of Vienne 
Devious the Damsel turn'd. Through Chinou's gates 
The Son of Orleans press'd with rapid step, 
Seeking the king. Him from the public view 
He found secluded with his blameless queen, 
And her, partaker of the unlawful bed, 
The lofty-minded Agnes. 

"Son of Orleans!" 
So as he enter'd cried the haughty fair, 
" Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, 
The weak, unmanly, mean despondency 
Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat 
To distant Dauphine and tly the war ! 
Go then, unworthy of thy rank ! retreat 
To distant Dauphine, and fly the war, 
Recreant from battle ! I will not pai'take 
A fugitive's fate ; when thou hast lost thy crown 
Thou hast lost Agnes. — Dost not blush, DuuoisI 
To bleed in combat for a Prince like this, 
Fit only, like the Merovingian race. 
On a May-^ morning deck'd with flowers, to mount 
His gay-bedizened car, and ride abroad 
i^nd make the multitude a holyday. 
Go, Charles — and hide thee in a woman's garb, 
And tlieae long locks-* will not disgrace thee then!" 

"Nay, Agnes!" Charles replied, "reproach me U( w 
I have enough of sorrow. Look around, 
See this fair country ravaged by the foe, 


My strong holds taken, and my bravest cliiefa 
Fall'n in the lield, or captives far away. 
Dead is the Douglas ; cold thy warrior frame, 
Illustrious Buchan ; ye from Scotland's hills, 
Not mindless of your old ally distress'd, 
Eush'd to his" succour: in his cause ye fought, 
For him ye perish'd. Rash, impetuous Narbonne 
Thy mangled corse waves to the winds of heavuu. 
Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death; 
Fall'u is Ventadaur ; silent in the grave 
Rambouillet sleeps : Bretagne's unfaithful chief 
Leagues with my foes, and Richemont, or hi arms 
Defies my weak control, or from my side, 
A friend more dreaded than the enemy, 
Drives my best servants with the assassin sword. 
Soon must the towers of Orleans fall! — But now 
These sad thoughts boot not. Welcome to our court, 
Duuois! We yet can give the friendly feast, 
And from the heavy cares of empire win 
One hospitable day of merriment." 

The Chief replied : " So may thy future years 
Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills 
Shall vanish hke a vision of the night! 
To thee, to France I come the messenger 
Of aid from Heaven. The delegated Slaid 
With me, whom Providence all-wise decrees 
The saviour of the realm ; — a holy Maid, 
Bearing strange promise of mu-aculous things ; 
One whom it were not possible to hear 
And disbelieve." 

Astonish'd by his speech 
Stood Charles. "At one of meaner estimation 
I should have smil'd, Dunois. Thy well-known worth, 
The loyalty of all thy noble house. 
Compel me even to this, a most strange tale. 
To lend a serious ear. A woman sent 
From Heaven, the Saviour of this wasted realm, 
One whom it were not possible to hear 
And disbelieve! Dunois, ill now beseems 
Ought wild and hazardous; the throne of France 
Totters upon destruction. Is my persoa 
Known to this woman V 

" She lias Ilv'd retir'd,* 


The Bastard answer 'd, " ignorant oi courts, 
And little heeding, till the spii-it of God 
Eous'd her to this great work." 

To him the king : 
** If, then, she knows me not, abide thou hei'e, 
And hither, by a speedy messenger, 
Summon the Maiden. On the throne, meantime, 
r the while mingling with the menial throng, 
Some courtier shall be seated. If this Maid 
Be by the holy spirit of God inspir'd. 
That holy spirit will gift her with the power 
To pierce deception. But if, strange ot mind, 
Enthusiast fancy fire her wilder'd brain, 
Thus proved, she to obscurity again 
May guiltlessly retire. Our English foes 
IVDght well exult to see the sons of France 
Led by a frenzied female." So he said ; 
And, with a doubtful hope, the son of Orleans 
Dispatched a speedy messenger, to seek 
Beside the banks of Vieune, the mission'd Maid. 

Soon is the court convened; the jewell'd crown 
Shines on a menial's head. Amid the throng 
The monarch stands, and anxious for the event, 
His heart beats high. She comes, the inspired Maid! 
And as the Bastard led her to the throne. 
Quick glancing o'er the mimic Majesty, 
Fix'd full her eye on Charles. 

" Thou art the King. 
I come the avenging delegate of Heaven, 
Wielding the wrathful weapon, from whose death. 
Their stern arts palsied by the arm of God, 
Far, far from Orleans shall the English wolves 
Speed their disastrous flight. Monarch of France! 
Spread the good tidings through thy ravaged realm ! 
The Maid is come, the mission'd Maid, whose hand 
Shall in the consecrated walls of Eheims 
Crown thee the anointed king." 

In wonder mute 
The courtiers heard. The astonish'd king exclaim'd, 
" This is indeed the agency of Heaven! 
Hard, Maiden, were I of belief," he cried, 
" Did I not now, with full and confirm'd faith, 
Thee the redeemer of this ravaged realm 


Eelieve. Not doubting, therefore, the strange will 
Ot the all-wise Providence, delay I now 
Instant to marshal the brave sons of France 
Beneath thy banners ; but to satisfy 
Those who at distance from this most cioar proof 
]\Iay hear and disbelieve, or yield at best 
A cold assent. These fully to confirm, 
And more to manifest thy holy power. 
Forthwith with all due speed I shall convene 
The Doctors of Theology, wise men. 
And skilful in the mysteries ot Heaven. 
By these thy mission studied and approveo, 
As needs it must, their sanction to all mind.s 
Shall bring conviction, aud the lii-m belief 
Lead on thy tavour'd troops to mightiest deeds, 
Sui'passing human credibility." 

Well pleas'd the Maiden heard. Her the king leadu 
From the disbanding throng, meantime to dwell 
With Mary. Watchful for her lord's retr.rn 
She sat with Agnes ; Agnes, proud of heart, 
Majestically fair, whose large full eye 
Or flashing anger, or with scoi^nful scow], 
Deform'd her beauteous features. Yet with her, 
The lawless idol of the monarch's heart, 
Mary, obedient to her husband's will, 
Dwelt peaceful, from the proudly-geuerous mind 
Of Agnes winning friendship. Soon the Maid 
Lov'd the mild queen, and sojourning with her, 
Expects the solemn summons. 

Through the realm 
Meantime the king'iS convoking voice was heard, 
And from their palaces and monasteries 
Swarm'd torth the doctors, men acute and deep, 
Grown grey in study ; priests and bishops haste 
To Chinon : teachers wise and with high names^ 
Seraphic, Subtile, or Irrefragable, 
By their admu'ing pupils dignified. 

The doctors met ; from cloister gloom recluse, 
Or from the haunts luxurious of the abode 
Episcopal, they met, and sought the place 
Of judgment. Very ancient was the dome. 
The floor with many a monumental stone 


O'erspread, and brass-ensculptur'd effigy 

Of holy abbots honour'd in their day, 

Now to the grave gone down. The branching arms 

Of many a ponderous pillar mot aloft, 

Wreath'd on the roof emboss'd. The windows gleam "d 

Awful and dim their many-colour'd light. 

Through the rich robes of eremites and saints , 

Trees, mountains, castles, ships, sun, moon, and stara — 

Splendid confusion ! the pure wave beneath 

llellects and trembles in the purpling beam. 

On the altar burns that mystic lamp whose florae 

May not be quenched. 

Circling round the vase 
They bow the knee, uttering the hali-heard prayer; 
Mysterious power conununicating thus 
To the hallowed water, deem'd a mightier spell 
O'er the fierce fiends of Satan's fallen crew, 
Than e'er the hell -hags taught in Thessaly, 
Or they who, sitting on the rifled grave. 
Dim seen by the blue tomb-fire's lurid light, 
Partake the Vampire's banquet. . 

This perform'd, 
The Maid is summon'd. Eound the holy vase 
Iklark'd with the mystic tonsure, and enrob'd 
In sacred vests, a venerable train. 
They stand. The delegated Maid obeys 
•Their summons. As she came, a loveliest blush 
O'er her fair cheek suffns'd, such as became 
One mindful still of maiden modesty, 
Though of her own worth conscious. Thro' tl e aisle 
The cold wind moaning, as it pass'd along 
Waved her dark flowing locks. Before the train, 
in reverend silence waiting their sage will. 
With half-averted eye she stood composed. 
So have I seen the simple snow-drop rise 
Amid the russet leaves that hide the earth 
In early spring, so seen its gentle bend 
Of modest loveliness amid the waste 
Of desolation. 

By the maiden's side 
The Son of Orleans stood, prepar'd to voiach 
That when on Charles the Maiden's eye had fix'd, 
As led by power miraculous, no fraud, 
No juggling artifice of secret sip^u 

TOAli OF AKC. 31 

Dissembled inspiiation. As he stood 

Steadily viewing the mysterious rites, 

Thus to the attentive Maid the Arch-Priest spake 


"Wojnan, if any fiend oi hell 
Liirk in thy bosom, so to prompt the vaunt 
Ot inspiration, and to mock the power 
Of God and holy church, thus by the virtue 
Of water hallowed in the name oi God 
That damned spirit adjure I to depart 
From his possessed prey." 

Slowly he sjiake, 
And sprinkled water on the vircin's lace. 
Indignant at the unworthy charge, the JNIaid 
Felt her cheek liush, but soon, tlie transient glow 
Fading, she answered meek : 

" Most holy sires, 
Ye reverend fathers of the Christian church, 
Most catholic ! before your view I stand 
A poor, weak woman. Of the grace vouchsafed 
How far unworthy, conscious: yet though mean, 
Guiltless of fraud, and chosen by highest Heaven 
The minister of aid. Strange voices heard. 
The dark and shadowing visions of the night. 
And feelings that T may not dare to doubt — 
These portents make me conscious of the God 
Within me ; he who gifted my purged eye 
To know the monarch 'mid the menial tlirong, 
Unseen before. Thus much it boots to say. 
The life of simple virgin ill deserves 
To call your minds from studies wise and deep, 
Not to he fathom'd by the weaker sense 
Of man profane." 

"Thou speakest," said the Priest, 
" Of dark and shadowing visions of the night. 
Canst thou remember. Maid ! what vision first 
Seem'd more than Fancy's shaping 1 from such tale, 
Minutely told with accurate circumstance, 
Best judgment might be formed." 

The Maid replied : 
* Amid the mountain vallej^s I had driven 
My father's flock. The eve was drawing on, 
When, by the sudden storm surj^rised, I sought 
'V chapel's neighbouring shelter ; ruined now ; 


But 1 remember -when its vesper bell 

Was heard among the hills, a pleasant sound, 

That made me pause upon my homeward road, 

-A waking in me comfortable thoughts 

Of holiness. The unsparing soldiery 

Had sack'd the hamlet near, and none was left 

Duly at sacred seasons to attend 

St. Agues' chapel. In the desolate pile 

I drove my flock, v/ith no irreverent thoughts. 

Nor mindless that the place on which I trod 

"Was holy ground. It was a fearful night! 

Devoutly to the virgin saint I pray'd, 

Then heap'd the wither'd leaves that the autumn wmd 

Had drifted in, and laid me down upon them, 

And sure I think I slept. But so it was 

That, in the dead of night, Saint Agnes stood 

Before mine eyes, such and so beautiful 

As when, amid the house of wickedness, 

The power whom with such fervent love she ser\'cd 

Veiled her with glory. And she seem'd to poinf 

To the moss-grown altar, and the crucifix 

Half hid by the long grass; — and then I thought 

I could have withered armies with a look. 

For from the present saint such divine ])0wer 

I felt infused — 'twas but a dream, perhaps. 

And yet methought that when a louder y.cjl 

Burst o'er the roof, and all was left again 

Utterly dark, each bodily sense was clear 

And sensible to every circumstance 

Of time and place." 

Attentive to her words 
Thus the Priest answered : 

"Brethren, yo }:ave benrd 
The woman's tale. Beseems us now I.t lusk 
Whether of holy church a duteous child 
Before our court appears, so not unlike 
Heaven might vouchsafe its gracious miracle; 
Or silly heretic, whose erring thoughts, 
Monstrous and vain, perchance might stray beyond 
AM reason, and conceit strange dreams and .'signs 
Impossible. Say, woman, from thy youth thou, as rightly mother church demands, 
Confess'd to the holy jiriest each .secret sin. 


That l)y the grace vouchsafed to him from Heaven, 
He might absolve thee?" 

" Father," she rei^lied, 
" The forms of worship in mine earlier years 
Waked my young mind to artificial awe, 
And made me fear my God. Warm with the glow 
Of health and exercise, whene'er I pass'd 
The thi-eshold of the honse of prayer, I felt 
A cold damp chill me ; I beheld (.he flame 
That with a pale and feeble glimmering 
Dimmed the noonlight ; I heard the solemn mass. 
And with strange feelings and mysterious dread 
Telling my beads, gave to the mystic prayers 
Devoutest meaning. Often when I saw 
The pictured flames writhe round a penanced soul, 
Have I retired, and knelt before the cross 
And wept for grace, and trembled and believed 
A God of Terrors. But in riper years, 
Wlien as my soul grew strong in solitude, 
I saw the eternal energy pervade 
The boundless range of nature, with the sun 
Pour life and radiance from his flamy path, 
And on the lowliest flo-^-vi-et of the field 
The kindly dew-drops shed. And then I felt 
That He who form'd this goodly frame of things 
Must needs be good, and with a Father's name 
I call'd on Him, and from my burthen'd heart 
Pour'd out the yearnings of unmingled love. 
Methinks it is not strange, then, that I fled 
The house of prayer, and made the lonely grovo 
My temple, at the foot of some old oak 
Watching the little tribes that had their world 
Within its mossy bark ; or laid me down 
Beside the rivulet, whose murmuring 
Was silence to my soul, and mark'd the swarm 
Whose light-edged shadows on the bedded sand 
Mirror'd their mazy sports ; the insect hum, 
The flow of waters, and the song of birds 
Making most holy music to mine ear : 
Ob! was it strange, if for such scenes as these, 
Such deep devoutness, such intense delight 
Of quiet adoration, I forsook 
The house oi worship ? strange, that when I ieh 


That God had made my spirit quick to feel 
And love whate'er was beautiful and good, 
And from ought evil and deform'd to shrink 
Even as with instinct; — father! was it strange 
That in my heart I had no thought of sin 
And did not need forgiveness?" 

As she spake, 
The doctors stood astonish'd, and some while 
They listen'd still in wonder. But at length 
A priest replied : 

" Woman, thou seemst to scorn 
The ordinances oi the holy church, 
And, if I rightly understand thy words, 
Thou sayest that solitude and nature taught 
Thy feelings of religion, and that now 
Masses and absolutions and the use 
Ot mystic wafer, are to thee unknown. 
How, then, could Nature teach thee true religion, 
Deprived of ihese ? Nature can teach to sin. 
But 'tis the priest alone can teach remorse, 
Can bid St. Peter ope the gates of heaven, 
And from the penal fa-es of pnirgatory 
Absolve the soul. Could Nature teach thee this? 
Or tell thee that St. Peter holds the keys. 
And that his successor's unbounded power 
Extends o'er either world 1 Although thy life 
Of sin were free, if of this holy truth 
Ignorant, thy soul in liquid flames must rue 

Thus he spake ; the applauding looi' 
Went round. Nor dubious to reply the Maid 
Was silent. 

" Fatliers of the holy church, 
If on these points abstruse a simple maid 
Like me, should err, impute not you the crime 
To self-will'd reason, vaunting its own strength 
Above the eternal wisdom. True it is 
That for long time I have not heard the sound 
Of mass high-chanted, nor with trembling lipe 
Partook the mystic wafer : yet the bird 
That to the matin ray prelusive pour'd 
His joyous song, methought did warble forth 
Sweeter thanksgiving to religion's ear 
In his wild melody of happiness, 


Than ever rung along the high-arched loofs 

Of man. Yet never from the bending vine 

Pluck'd I its ripen'd chisters tlianlclesslj, 

Of that good God unmindful, who bestow'd 

The bloodless banquet. Ye have told me, sirs, 

That Nature only teaches man to sin ! 

If it be sin to seek the wounded iamb, 

To bind its wounds, and bathe them with my tears. 

This is what Nature taught ! No, fathers ! no, 

It is not Nature that can teach to sin: 

Nature is all benevolence, all love, 

All beauty ! In the greenwood's simple shade 

There is no vice that to the indignant clieek 

Bids the red current rush; no miserv there; 

No wretched mother, that with pallid face 

And famine-fall'n, hangs o'er her hungry babe's 

With such a look, so wan, so wo-begone, 

As shall one day, with damning elo(:_[uence. 

Against the mighty plead! Nature teach sin! 

Oh blasphemy against the Holy One, 

Who made us in the image of Himself, 

AVho made us all for happiness and lovs — 

Infinite happiness, infinite love, 

Partakers of his own eternity," 

Solemn and slow the reverend priest replied : 
" Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven 
Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles 
On one fore-doom'd to misery ; for so doom'd 
Is that deluded one, who, of the mass 
Unheeding, and the church's savmg power. 
Deems Nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well, 
Brethren, I would propose this woman try 
The holy ordeal. Let her, bound and stript, 
Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal'd 
Some holy relic so profaned, be cast 
In the deep pond ; there if she float, no doubt 
Some fiend upholds, but if she instant sink. 
Sure sign is that that Providence displays 
Her free from witchcraft. This done, let her walk 
Blinded and bare o'er ploughshares heated red, 
And o'er these past, her naked arm plunge deep 
In scalding water. If from these she pass 
Unhurt, to holy father of the church, 


Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause 
For judgment: and this chief, the Son of Orleans, 
"Who comes to vouch the royal person known 
By her miraculous power, shall pass with her 
The sacred triah" 

"Grace of God!" exclaim'd 
The astonish'd Bastard ; " plunge me in the pool, 
O'er i-ed-hot ploughshares make me dance, to please 
Your dotard lancies ! Fathers ol the church, 
AVhere is yoixr gravity ? What! elder-like, 
This fairer than Susannah would you eye ? 
Ye call for ordeals ; and I too demand 
The noblest ordeal, on the English host 
In victory to prove the mission sent 
From favouring Heaven. To the Pope refer 
For judgment ! Know ye not that France even nc w 
Stands tottering on destruction !" 

Starting wild, 
With a strange look, the mission'd Maid exclaim'd, 
" The sword ol God is here ! the grave shall speak 
To manifest me!" 

Even as she spake, 
A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb 
Beside her. A deep silence through the dome 
Dwelt awful: sudden from tliat house of death 
The clash ot arms was heard, as though within 
The shrouded warrior shook his mailed limbs, 

" Hear ye!" the damsel cried ; " these are the armxi 
That shall flash terror o'er the hostile host — 
These, in the presence of our loi-d the king, 
And the assembled people, I shall take 
From this the sepulchre, where many an age 
Incorruptible they have lain conceal'd. 
Destined for me, the delegate of Heaven." 

Pecovering from amaze, the priest replied: 
** Thou art indeed the delegate of Heaven ! 
What thou hast said surely thou shalt perform ] 
We ratify thy mission. Go in peace." 


A. Messen^jer from Orleans requests immetiinte snccour. The Maid 
takes lier aimour from a tomb in tlie cliurcli of St. Cachariue. She 
announces her intention of marching on the morrow. 

The Feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went round, 

And to the asoembled court the minstrel harp'd 

The song of other days. Sudden they heard 

The horn's loud blast. " This is no time for cares ; 

Feast ye the messenger without !" cried Charles, 

" Enough is given of the wearying day 

To the public weal." 

Obedient to the king 
The guard invites the traveller to his fare. 
" Nay, I shall see the monarch," he replied, 
** And he shall hear my tidings ; duty-urged, 
For many a long league have I hasten'd on. 
Not now to be repell'd." Then with strong arm 
Eemoving him who barr'd his onward way, 
The hall he enters. 

" King of France, I come 
From Orleans, speedy and elFectual aid 
Demanding for her gallant garrison, 
Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight, 
And wither'd now by want. Thee it beseems^ 
For ever anxious for thy people's weal. 
To succour these brave men, whose honest breasts 
Bulwark thy thi'one." 

He said, and from the hall 
With upright step departing, in amaze 
At his so bold deportment, left the Court. 
The king esclaim'd, " But little need to send 
Quick succour to this gallant garrison, 
li to the English half so firm a front 
They bear in battle !" 

" In the field, my Uege," 
Dunois replied, " that man has serv'd tliee welL 


Him have I seen the foremost of the fight, 

Wielding so fearlully his death-red axe, 

His eye so fury-fired, that the pale foe 

Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke, 

Desperate of safety. I do marvel much 

That he is here : Orleans must be hard press'd 

When one, the bravest of her garrison. 

Is thus conimission'd." 

Swift the Maid exclaim'd, 
" T tell thee, Chief, that there the English wolves 
Shall never pour their yells of victory ! 
The will of God defends those ftited walls, 
And resting in full faith on that high will, 
I mock their eff'orts. But the night draws on ; 
Eetire we to repose. To-morrow's sun, 
Bieaking the darkness of the sepulchre. 
Shall on that armour gleam, through many an age 
Kept holy and inviolate by time." 
She said, and rising, from the board retired. 

Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd 
Coming solemnity, and far and wide 
Spread the strange tidings. Every labour ceas'd ; 
The ploughman from the vmfinish'd furrow hastes ; 
The armorer's anvil beats no more the din 
Of future slaughter. Through the thronging stree' 
The buzz of askiug wonder hums along. 

On to St. Catherine's sacred fane they go; 
The holy fathers with the imaged cross 
Leading the long procession. Next, as one 
Suppliant for mercy to the King of Kings, 
And grateful for the benefits of Heaven, 
The monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid, 
Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest. 
Wistless that every eye on her was fix'd, 
With stately step she moved: her labouring soul 
To high thoughts elevate ; and gazing round 
With the wild e5^e, that of the circling throng 
And of the visible world imseeing, saw 
The shapes of holy phantasy. By her 
The warrior Son of Orleans strode along 
Pre-eminent. He. nerving his young frame 
With manly exercise, had scaled the cliff, 


And dashing in the torrent's foaming flood, 

Stemm'd with broad breast its fury ; so liis form, 

Sinewy and firm, and fit for loftiest deeds, 

Tower'd high amid the throng effeminate ; 

No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs 

Eflaced the hauberk's honourable marks ; 

His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints 

Many and deep ; upon his pictur'd shield 

A lion vainly struggled in the toils, 

Whilst by his side the cub, with pious rage 

His young mane floating to the desert air, 

Eends the fallen huntsman. Tremouille him behind, 

The worthless favourite of the slothful prince, 

Stalk'd arrogant, in shining armour clasp'd, 

Emboss'd with gold and gems of richest liue, 

Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade 

Defaced, and rusted by no hostile blood ; 

Trimly-accoutred court habiliments, 

Gay lady-dazzling armour, to adorn 

In dangerless mauceuvres some review, 

The mockery of murder ! follow'd him 

The train of corn-tiers ; summer-flies, that sport 

In the sun beam ol favour ; insects, sprung 

From the court dunghill; greedy blood suckers, 

The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state. 

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees 
Pour their deep music, pleasant melody 
To the tired traveller, under some old oak 
Stretch'd in the chequer'd shade ; or as the sound 
Of many waters dovvoi the far-ott" steep 
Dash'd with loud uproar, rose the murmur round 
Oi admiration. Every gazing eye 
Dwelt on the missiou'd Maid ; of all beside. 
The long procession and the gorgeous train, 
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling gems, 
And their rich plumes high waving to the air. 

The consecrated dome they reach, 
Eear'd to St. Catharine's holy memory. 
Her tale the altar told ; when Masimin, 
His rais'd lip kindled with a savage smile, 
In such deep fury bade the teuter'd wheel 
Tear her life piecemeal, that the very face 


Of the hard executioner relax'd 
With horror; calm she heard; no drop of blood 
Forsook her cheek ; her steady eye was turn'd 
Heavenward, and Hope and meekest Piety 
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust: 
For lo ! the Angel of the Lord descends 
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel ! 
One glance of holy triumph Catharine cast, 
Then bow'd her to the sword ol martyrdom. 

Her eye averting from the storied wo, 
The delegated damsel knelt, and pour'd 
To Heaven the earnest prayer. 

A trophied tomb 
Close to the altar rear'd its ancient bulk. 
Two pointless javelins and a broken sword, 
Time-mouldering now, proclaim'd some warrior slept 
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone 
And rude-ensculptur'd effigy o'erlaid 
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment 
The expectant multitude with eager eye 
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke 
Invades the tomb's repose : the heavy stroke 
Sounds hollow ; over the high-vaulted roof 
Roll the repeated echoes : soon the day 
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam 
Beams on the enshrined arms, the crested helm, 
The bauldrick's strength, the shield, the sacred sword. 
A sound ol awe-repress'd astonishment 
Eose from the crowd. The delegated Maid 
Over her robes the hallowed breast-plate threw. 
Self-fitted to her form ; on her helm'd head 
The white plumes nod majestically slow; 
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword, 
Gleaming portentous light. 

The amazed crowd 
Eaise the loud shout ot transport. " God of Heaven ! 
The Maid exclaim'd; " Father all-merciful ! 
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield 
The sword of Vengeance, go before our host ! 
All-just Avenger of the innocent. 
Be thou our Champion ! God of Love, presei-ve 
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms." 


She ceas'd, and with an eager hush the crowd 
Still listened; a briei while throughout the dome 
Deep silence dwelt ; then with a sudden burst, 
Devout and full, they rais'd the choral hymn — 
" Thee, Lord, we praise, our God !" The throng without 
Catch the strange tidings, join the hjTiin ol joy, 
And thundering transport peals along the heavens. 

As thro' the parthig crowd the virgin pass'd. 
He who from Orleans on the yesternight 
Demanded succour, clasp'd with warmth her liand, 
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim'd, 
" Ill-omen'd Maid ! victim of thine own worth, 
Devoted for the king-curst realm of France ! — 
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee !" So saying, 
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words 
Disturb'd, the warrior-virgin pass'd along, 
And much revolving in her troubled mind, 
Retreads the com-t. 

And now the horn announced 
The ready banquet ; they partook the feast. 
Then rose, and in the cooling water cleansed 
Their hands, and seated at the board again, 
Enjoyed the bowl, or scented high with spice, 
Or flavour'd with the fragrant summer fruit. 
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich. 
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp : he sung 
Of Lancelot du Lake, the tz'uest knight 
That ever loved fair lady; and the youth 
Of Cornwall, underneath whose maiden sword 
The strength oi Ireland fell; and he who struck 
The dolorous stroke, the blameless and the bi'ave, 
Who died beneath a brother's erring arm. 
Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel ! 
The songs of earlier years emimlm your f;ime, 
A nd haply yet some poet shall arise. 
Like that divinest Tuscan, and enwreathe 
The immortal garland for himself and you. 

The full sound echoed o'er the arched roof. 
And listening eager to the favourite lay. 
The guests sat silent, when into the hall 
The messenger from that besieged town 


Stalk'd stately. " It is pleasant, King of France, 
To feast at ease and hear the harper's song ; 
Far other music hear the men of Orleans ! 
Death is among them; there the voice of Wo 
Moans ceaseless." 

" Elide, unmannerly intruder !'' 
Exclaim'd the monarch : " Cease to interrupt 
The hour of merriment ; it is not thine 
To instruct me in my duty." 

Of reproof 
Heedless, the stranger to the minstrel cried : 
" "Why harpest thou of good Iving Arthur's fame 
Amid these walls ? Vii-tue and Genius love 
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose lewd tale 
To pamper and provoke the apjietite ? 
Such should procure thee worthy recompence ? 
Or rather sing thou of that mighty one. 
Who tore the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, 
That was to him even as a daughter ! Charles, 
This holy tale would T tell, prophet-like, 
And look at thee, and cry, ' Thou art the man !' " 

He said, and with a quick and troubled step 
Retired. Astouish'd at his daring phrase, 
The guests sat heedless of the minstrel's song, 
Pondering the words mysterious. Soon the harp 
Beguil'd their senses of anxiety. 

The court dispers'd : retiring from the hall, 
Charles and the delegated damsel sought 
The inner palace. There awaited them 
The Queen: with her Joan loved to pass the hours, 
By various converse cheer'd ; for she had won 
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy, 
The calm and duteous patience that deplor'd 
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told 
With what strange words the messenger from Orleanfc 
Had rous'd uneasy wonder in her mind ; 
For on her ear yet vibrated the voice, 
" Ill-omened Maid, I pity thee !" when lo ! 
Again that man stalk'd to the door, and stood 
Scowling around. 

" Why dost thou haunt me thua V* 
The monarch cried. " Is there no place secure 


From thy rude insolence ? Unmanner'd mau ! 
I know thee not !" 

" Then learn to know me, Charles !" 
Solemnly he rejilied. " Eead well my face, 
That thou mayest know it on that dreadful day, 
When at the throne of God I shall demand 
His justice on thee !" Turning from the king, 
To Agnes as she enter'd, in a tone 
More low, more awfully severe, he cried, 
" Dost thou, too, know me not i" 

She glanced on him, 
And pale and breathless hid her head, convnls'd, 
In the Maid's bosom. 

" King of France !" he said, 
" She lov'd me ! Day by day I dwelt with her ; 
Her voice was music, very sweet her smiles! 
I left her! left her, Charles, in evil hour, 
To fight thy battles. Thou meantime didst come, 
Staining most foul her s]iotless purity ; 
For she was pure. — Alas! these courtly robes 
Hide not the hideous stain of infamy. 
Thou canst not with thy golden belt pxat on 
An honourable name, unhappy one ! 
My poor, polluted Agnes! — Thou bad man! 
Thou hast almost shaken my faith in Heaven. 
I see thee rioting in sloth and guilt, 
And yet thou restest pillowing thy head 
Even on her bosom ! I, though innocent 
Of ill, the victim of another's vice, 
Drag on the loathsome burthen of existence. 
And doubt Heaven's justice!" 

So he said, and fi'own'd 
Dark as that man who at Mohammed's door 
Knock'd fierce and frequent; from whose fearfiU look, 
Batli'd with cold damps, every beholder fled. 
Even he the Prophet, almost terrified, 
Endur'd but half to view him ; for he knew 
Azrael, stern-brow'd Messenger of Fate, 
And his death-day was come. Guilt-petrified 
The monarch sat, nor could endure to face 
His bosom-probing frown. The mission'd Maid 
Pvead anxious his stern features, and exclaim 'd 
" I know thee, Conrade !" Rising from her seat, 
She took his hand, for he stood motionless, 


Gazing on Agnes now with fuU-fix'd eye, 

Dreadful, thougli calm : him from the court she dr«w, 

And to the river's banks, resisting not, 

Both sadly silent, led ; till at the last, 

As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd 

Full on the Maid, and tailing on her neck, 

He wept. 

" I know thee, damsel !" he exclaim'd. 
•' Dost thou remember that tem]iestuous night, 
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought 
Your hospitable doors 1 Ah me ! I then 
Was happy! You too sojourn'd then in peace. 
Fool that I was ; I blam'd such happiness ; 
Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth, 
Unhappily prevailing ; so I fear me ; 
Or why art thou at Chinon ?" 

Him the Maid 
Answering, address'd: "I do remember well 
That night, for then the holy spirit first 
Waked by thy words, possess'd me." 

Conrade cried: 
"Poo:- Maidsn, thou wert happy! thou hadst liv'd 
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd 
Needlessly rigid from my peaceful path. 
And thou hast left thine home, then, and obey'd 
The feverish fancies oi thine ardent brain ! 
And hast thou left him, too, the youth, whose eye 
For ever glancing on thee, sjiake so well 
Affection's eloquent tale ] 

So as he said, 
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek. 
" I am alone," she answer'd, " for this realm 
Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid 
Endur'd ; for many a melancholy thought 
Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind's eye 
Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc: 
Her burthen'd heart was full ; such grief she felt, 
Yet such sweet solacing of self applause 
As cheers the banish'd patriot's lonely hours 
When Fancy pictures to him all he loved, 
Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb, 
And drowns the soft enchantment. 

With a look, 
7hat spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed 


The silent Maid ; nor would the Maid suppress 

The thoughts that swell'd within her, or from him 

Hide her soul's workings. " 'Twas on the last night 

Before I left Domremi's pleasant home, 

I sate beside the broolv, my labouring soul 

Full, as inebriate with Divinity. 

Then, Conrade! I beheld the rufSan herd 

Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake 

A female stood ; the iron bruised her breast, 

And round her limbs ungarmented, the fire 

Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance ; 

I knew myself." Then, in subdued tones 

Of calmness, " There are moments when the soul 

From her own impulse with strange dread recoilSj 

Suspicious of herself: but with most full 

And perfect faith I know this vision sent 

From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth, 

As that God liveth, that I live myself, 

The feeling that deceives not." 

By the hand 
Her Conrade held, and cried, " Ill-fated Maid, 
That I have torn thee from Affection's breast. 
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve, 
Like me, the worthless Court, and having serv'd. 
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou shalt curse 
The duty that deluded. Of the world 
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow men, 
I shall be seen no more. There is a path — 
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf 
Knows not its hidden windings: I have trod 
That path, and mark'd a melancholy den, 
Where one whose jaundiced soul abhors itself^ 
May pamper him in complete -vvTetchedness. 
There sepulchred, the ghost of what he was, 
Conrade shall dwell ; and in the languid hour. 
When the jarr'd senses sink to a sick calm. 
Shall mourn the waste of frenzy!" 

Then the Maid 
Fix'd upon Conrade her commanding eye : 
" I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she cried ; 
" The vines had spread their interwoven shoots 
Over the unpruned vineyards, the rich grapes 
Rotted beneath the leaves, for there was none 
To tread the vintage, and the birds of heaven 


Had glutted them. I saw the cattle start 
As they did hear-^ the loud alarum-bell, 
And with a piteous moaning vainly seek 
To fly the death to come. I have look'd back 
Upon the cottage where I had partook 
The peasant's meal, and seen it wrapt in flames j 
And then I thank'd my God that I had burst 
The stubboi'u ties that fetter down the soul 
To selfish hapjiiness, and on this earth 
Was as a pilgrim. — Conrade ! I'ouse thyself ! 
Cast the weak nature off ! a time like this 
Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow 
Of love, the overflowings of the heart. 
There is oppression in thy country, Conrade ! 
There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs 
The just man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy 
.Earth's noblest recompence, thine own esteem ; 
Or die in that good cause, and thy reward 
Shall sure be found in heaven." 

He answer'd not^ 
But clasping to liis heart the Virgin's hand. 
Sped rapid o'er tlie plain. She with dim eyes, 
For gushing tears obscur'd them, follow'd him 
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought 
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne 
Awhile she wandered ; then upon the bank 
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream 
Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds 
Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow. 
The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams 
A-S Memory in her melancholy mood 
Most loves. The wonted scenes of Arc arose ; 
She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved 
Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag 
That overbrow'd the spring, and the old yew 
Tliat through the bare and rifted rock had forced 
Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red 
Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home 
She saw, and those who made that home so dear. 
Her loved, lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd 
Her eye, when from behind a voice address'd her : 
" Forgive the intrusion, lady ! I would ask 
Where I might meet that Heaven-commission'd Maid, 
Call'd to deliver France." 

JOA>f OF ARC. 47 

The Well-known tones 
riuiird her; her heart throbb'J fast; slie started up, 
And fell ui^ou the neck oi Theodore. 

"Oh! I have found thee!" cried the enraptur'a youiK 
And I shall dare the battle by thy side, 
And shield thee from the war! but tell me, Joan, 
Why didst thou brood in such strange mystery, 
Over thy Heaven-doom'd purpose ? Trust me,']Muiden. 
I have shed many tears for that wild gloom 
That so estranged thee from thy Theodore ! 
If thou couldst know the anguish I endur'd 
When thou wert gone! in sooth, it was unkind 
To leave us thus!" 

Mindless of her high call, 
Again the lowly shejjherdess of Arc, 
In half-articulated words the Maid 
Express'd her joy. Oi Elinor she ask'd, 
How from a doting mother he had come 
In arms array'd. 

" Thou wakest in my mind 
A thought that makes me sad," the youth replied, 
For Elinor wept much at my resolve. 
And, eloquent with all a mother's fears. 
Urged me to leave her not. My waj^-ard heart 
Smote me, as I look'd back and saw her wa\ e 
Adieu! but high in hope I soon beguil'd 
These melancholy feelings, by the thought 
That we should both return to cheer her age, 
Thy mission well fulfill'd, and quit no more 
The copse-embosom'd cottage." 

But the Maid 
Soon started from her dream of happiness, 
For on her memory flash'd the flaming pile. 
A death-like paleness at the dreadtul thought 
Withered her cheek ; the dews on her cold brow 
Started, and on the arm of Theodore, 
Feeble and faint, she hung. His eager eye, 
Concentring all (he anguish of the soul. 
And straiu'd in anxious love, on her wan cheek 
Fearfully silent gazed. But by the thought 
Of her high mission rous'd, the Maiden's soul 
Collected, and she spake. 

"My Theodore, 


Tliou hast done wrong to quit thy mother's home ! 

Alone and aged, she will weep for thee, 

"Wasting the little that is left oi liie 

In anguish. Go thee back again to Arc, 

And cheering so her wintry hour of age, 

Cherish my memory there." 

Swift he exclaim'd^ 
" Nay, Maid ! the pang ol partmg is o'erpast, 
And Elinor looks on to the glad hour 
When we shall both return. Amid the war 
How many an arm will seek thy single life, 
How many a sword pierce thro' thy brittle mail. 
Wound thy fair face, or, driven with impious rage. 
Gore thy white bosom! Joan, I will go with thee, 
And spread the guardian shield !" 

Again the IMaid 
Grew pale ; for of her last and terrible hour 
The vision'd scene she saw. " Nay," she replied, 
" I shall not need thy succour in the war. 
Me Heaven, if so seem good to its high will, 
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore, 
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home, 
And make thy mother happy." 

The youth's cheoli 
A rapid blush disorder'd. " O ! the Court 
Is pleasant, and thy soul would fain forget 
An obscure villager, who only boasts 
The treasure of the heart!" 

She look'd at him 
With the reproaching eye ol tenderness : 
" Devoted for the realm of France, I go 
A willing victim. The unpierced veil 
To me was rais'd, my gifted eye beheld 
The fearful features of Futurity. 
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country. 
Abandoning for this the joys of life. 
Yea, life itself !" Then on his neck she fell. 
And with a tkltering voice, " Eeturn to Arc! 
I do not tell thee there are other maids 
As fair ; for thou wilt love my memory, 
Hallowing to it the temple of thy heart. 
Worthy a happier, not a better love, 
My Theodore!" — Then, pressing his pale lips, 
A last and holy kiss the virgin fix'd, 
And ri'^h'd aci'oss the plain. 


She reacli'd the court 
Breathless. Tlie mingled movements of her mind 
Shook every fibre. Sad and side at heart. 
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude 
The Maiden had retii-'d; but her the Icing 
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene 
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd 
As though there had not been a God m Heaven ! 
"Enter the hall," he cried, " the maskers there 
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad ? 
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame 
With his strange frenzies ?" 

Ere the Maid replied. 
The son of Orleans came with joyful speed. 
Poising his massy javelin. 

" Thou hast rous'd 
The sleepmg virtue of the sons of France; 
They crowd around the standard," cried the chief. 
" My lance is ponderous, I have sharp'd my sword 
To meet the mortal combat. Mission'd Maid, 
Our brethren sieged in Orleans, every moment 
Gaze fi'om the watch-tower with the sick'ning eye 
Of expectation." 

Then the King esclaim'd, 
" chosen by Heaven ! defer one day thy march, 
That humbled at the altar we may join 
The general prayer. Be these our holy rites 
To-morrow's task; — to-night for merriment!" 

The Maid replied, " The wretched ones in Orleans, 
In fear and hunger and expiring hope. 
Await my succour, and my prayers would plead 
In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour 
When active duty calls. For this night's mirth 
Hold me excused; in truth I am not lit 
For merriment; a heavy charge is on me, 
And I must lot go fi'om me mortal thoughts." 

Her heart was full, and pausing, she repress'd 
The unbidden anguish. " Lo ! they crowd ai-ound 
The standard ! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops 
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn 
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe." 


%k Mm fiO0L 


The Maid receives a consecrated Banner. The troops under her com- 
mand march towards Orleans. Tliey meet with one of the female 
outcasts from that city. Her history, including that of the siege. 

ScAECE had the earliest ray from Chinou's towers 

Made visible the mists that curl'd along 

The winding waves of Viemie, when from her couch 

Started the martial maid. She raail'd her limbs; 

The white plmnes nodded o'er her helmed head; 

She girt the sacred falchion by her side, 

And, like some youth that from liis mother's arms. 

For his first field impatient, breaks away, 

Poising the lance went forth. 

i Twelve hundred men, 

Bearing in order'd ranks their well-sharp'd spears, 
Await her coming. Terrible in arms. 
Before them towered Dunois, his manly face 
Dark-shadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks. 
The assembled court gaz'd on the marshall'd train, 
And at the gate the aged prelate stood 
To pour his blessing on the chosen host. 
And now a soft and solemn symphony 
Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn, 
From the near convent came the vestal maids. 
A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, 
Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment 
Of awe, and eager ardour for the fight, 
tf hriU'd through the troops, as he the reverend man 
Took the white standard, and with heaven-ward eye 
Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it. 
The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd. 
Her dark hair floatuig on the morning gale, 
Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand, 
Eeceiv'd the mystic ensign. From the host 
A loud and universal shout bm'st forth, 
As rising from the ground, on her white brow- 
She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high 


The banner' cl lilies. On their way they march. 
And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinoa 
Fade from the eye reverted. 

The sixth sun. 
Purpling the sky with his dilated light. 
Sunk westering; when embosomed in the depth 
Of-" that old forest, that for many a league 
Shadows the hills and vales of Orleannois, 
They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation 
Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale, 
The streamers wanton; and, ascending slow 
Beneath the foliage of the forest trees. 
With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke 
Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent. 
The martial JMaiden wander'd through the wood; 
There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank 
Reclined, she saw a damsel; her long locks 
Engarlanded, aiid as she nearer came. 
The Virgin knew it for the willow weed. 
Resting his head upon her lap, there lay 
A dark-hair'd man, listening- as she did sing 
Sad ditties, and en wreathe to bind his brow 
The melancholy rue. Scared at the sound 
Of one in arms approacliing, she had fled; 
But Conrade, looking upward, recognis'd 
The Maid of Arc. " Fear not, poor Isabel," 
Said he, " for this is one of gentle kind. 
Whom even the wretched need not fear to love." 

So saying, he arose and took her hand, 
And held it to his bosom. " My weak heart, 
Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind. 
Beats high, a rebel to its own resolves. 
Come hither, outcast one ! and call her friend. 
And she shall be thy friend more readily 
Because thou ai't unhappy." 

_ Isal)el 
Saw a tear starting in the Virgin's eye, 
And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept, 
Wailing his wilder 'd senses. 

" Mission'd Maid !" 
The warrior cried, " be happy ! for thy power 
Can make this wanderer so. From Orleans driven, 
Orphan'd 'oy war, and torn away from one 


Her only friend, I found lier m the wilds, 

Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, JoaCj 

Wilt his beloved to the youth restore; 

And trust me. Maid ! the miserable feel 

When they on others bestow happiness. 

High joys and soul ennobling." 

She replied. 
Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone 
Of equal fi-iendship, solacing her cares. 
" Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid; 
" A few hours in her di'eam of victory 
England shall triumph; then to be awaked 
By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath ! 
Irksome meantime the busy camp to me 
A solitary woman. Isabel, 
Wert thou the while companion of my tent. 
Lightly the time would pass. Eetmn with mo, 
I may not long be absent." 

So she spake. 
The wanderer in half-uttered words express'd 
Grateful assent. " Art thou astonish'd, Maid, 
That one though powerful is benevolent ? 
In truth thou well mayst wonder !" Conrade cried. 
" But little cause to love the mighty ones 
Has the low cottager ! for with its shade 
Does Power, a barren, death-dew-di'opping tree. 
Blast ev'ry herb beneath its baleful boughs ! 
Tell thou thy sull'erings, Isabel ! Relate 
How wan-'d the chieftains, and the people died. 
The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes; 
And pleasant to mine ear, the twice-told tale 
Of sorrow." 

Gazing on the martial Maid, 
3he read her wish and spake. " A wanderer novf, 
.Friendless and hopeless; still I love to think 
Upon my pleasant home, and call to mind 
Each haunt of careless youth; tlie woodbin'd wall, 
The jessamine that round the straw-roof 'd cot 
Its fi-agrant branches wreath'd, beneath whose aJia-do 
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun, 
And hear the redbreast's lay. Nor far remote, 
As o'er the subject landskip round I gazed, 
The towers of Jenville rose upon the view. 
A foreign master holds my father's home ! 


I, far away, remember the past years. 
And weep. 

Two brethren foi'm'd our llimily; 
Humble we were, and happy. Honest toil 
Procur'd our homely sustenance ; oui* herds. 
Duly at morn and evening to my hand 
Gave tlieir full stores ; the vineyard he had rear 'd- 
Purpled its clusters in the southern sun, 
And, plenteous produce of my father's toil. 
The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain. 
How cheerful, seated round the blazing hearth. 
When all the labour of the day was done, 
We past the evening hours ! for they would sins. 
Or cheerful roundelay, or ditty sad. 
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed ; 
Or of the doughty Paladins of France, 
Some warlike tit, the while my spinning wheel 
Humm'd not unpleasing round ! 

Thus long we lived, 
And happy. To a neighbouring youth my hand. 
In holy wedlock soon to be conbin'd, 
Was plighted: m}' poor Francis !" Here she paus'd. 
And here she wept awhile. 

" We did not dream 
The desolating sword of War would stoop 
To us; but soon, as with the whirlwind's speed. 
Ruin'-" rushed round us. Mehun, Clery, fell, 
The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall ; 
Baugenci yielded; soon the foe approach 'd 
The towers of Jenville. 

Fatal was the hour 
To wretched Isabel : for from tlie wall 
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield. 
That long had niouldered on the mouldering naiJL 
To meet tlie war repair 'd. No more was heard 
The ballad, or the merr}' roundelay; 
The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file. 
Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din. 
I never shall forget their mournful sound ! 

" My father stood encircling his old limbs 
In long-forgotten arms. ' Come, boys,' he cricdj 
* I did not think that this grey head again. 
Should bear the helmet's weight ! but in the field, 


Better to boldly die a soldier's death. 

Than here be tamely butch er'd. Thou, my child. 

Go to the Abbey; hei-e is gold to buy 

The safe protection of the holy church. 

Fare thee well, Isabel ! it' we survive 

And conquer, we shall meet again: if not, 

There is a better world !' 

In broken words, 
Lifting his looks to Heaven, my lather breath'd 
His blessing on me. As they strode away, 
My brethren gazed on me and prest my hand 
In silence, for they lov'd their Isabel. 
Fi-om the near cottage Francis join'd the troop. 
Then did I look on our forsaken home. 
And almost sob my very soul away ! 
For all my hopes of happiness were fled, 
Like a vain di-eam !" 

" Perish these mighty ones," 
■Cried Conrade, " these prime ministers of death, 
Who stalk elated o'er their fields of fame. 
And count the thousands they have massacred. 
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear 
Their pyramid of glory ! perish these. 
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues 
That EgjT^t knew ! who pour their locust swarms 
O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood. 
Fear and Destruction go before their path. 
And famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice, 
Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain !" 

Thus whilst he spake the murmur of the camp 
Rose on their ear : first like the distant sound 
Wlieu the fuU-foliaged forest to the storm 
Shakes its hoarse head; anon with louder din; 
And through the opening glade gleamed many a fira. 
The virgin's tent they enter'd; there the board 
Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook. 
Then thus her tale renew'd. 

" Slow o'er the hill 
Wliose rising head conceal'd our cot I past. 
Yet on my journey paus'd awhile, and gaz'd 
And wept; for often had I crost the hill 
With cheerful step, and seen the rising smokd 
Of hospitable fire; alas! no smoke 


Curl'd o'er the inelanclioly cliimneys now ! 
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood 
The abbey; and ere long I learnt the fall 
Of Jenville. 

On a day, a soldier ask'd 
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet 
Support me. It was Francis, and alone — 
The sole survivor of the fatal fight ! 

" And soon the foes approach'd: impending war 
Soon sadden'd Orleans. There the bravest chiels 
Assemble: Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes, 
And the Sire Chapelle in successful war 
Since wounded to the death, and that good knight 
Giresme of Kliodes, who in a better causo 
Can never wield the crucifix-^ that hilts 
His hallowed sword, and Xaintrailles ransom'd now, 
And Fayette late releas'd, and that young duke 
Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound 
Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest'-" man 
That ever yet did win his soldiers' love. 
And over all for hardihood renown'd 
The Bastard Orleans. 

These within the town 
Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men 
WeU tried in war, uprear the guardian shield 
Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight 
Of preparation. The wide suburbs sti'etch'd 
Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, 
Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand 
Of ruin.^" These preventive care destroys, 
Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls. 
Securely should approach. The monasteries 
Fell in the general waste. The holy monks 
Unwillingly their long-accustomed haunts 
Abandon, haunts where eveiy gloomy nook 
Call'd to awakened memory some trace 
Of vision seen, or sound mii-aculous. 
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cella 
For the rude uproar of a world unknown. 
The nuns desert: their abbess, more composed, • - 

Collects her maids around, and tells her beads. 
And pours the timid prayer of piety. 
The citizens with stronsj and ceaseless stroko 


Dag up the violated earth, to impede 
The foe: the hollow chambers of the dead 
Echoed beneath. The brazen-trophied tomb 
Thrown in the furnace, now prepares to give 
The death it late recorded. It was sad 
To see so wide a waste ; the aged ones 
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went 
O'er the fall'n dwellings of their happier years; 
The stern and sullen silence of the men 
Musing on vengeance: and, but ill represt. 
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd. 
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay 
One ample ruin ; the huge stones remov'd, 
Wait in the town to rain the storm of death. 

" And now without the walls the desolate plain 
Stretch'd wide, a rough and melancholy waste, 
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep 
Of many a ruined dwelling: nor within 
Less di-eary was the scene; at evening hour 
No more the merry viol's note was heard. 
No more the aged matron at her door 
Humm'd cheery to her spinning wheel, and mark'd 
Her children dancing to the roundelay. 
The chieftains sti'engthening still the massy walls, 
Survey them with tlie prjnng eye of fear. 
The eager youth in dreadful preparation 
Strive in the mimic war. Silent and stern, 
With the hunying restlessness of fear, they urge 
Their gloomj'^ labours. In the city dwelt 
A anost dead silence ot all pleasant sounds. 
But all day long the armourer's beat was heard. 
And all the night it echoed. 

Soon the foe 
Led to our walls the siege : as on they move 
The clarion's clangor, and the cheerful fife, 
According to the thundering dx'um's deep sound. 
Direct their mcasur'd march. Before the ranks 
Stalks the stem form of Salisbur}', the scom-ge 
Oi France ; and Talbot towered by his side, 
^ Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child 
Clings mute aqd trembling to his nurse's breast, 
Suftolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales, 


And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight. 
Dark as the autumnal storm they roU'd along, 
A countless host! From the high tower I raark'd 
The dreadful scene ! I saw the iron blaze 
Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun. 
Their banners tossing to the troubled gale, 
And — fearful music — heard upon the wind 
The modulated step of multitudes. 

" There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw 
The dreadful stores of death; tremendous roIFd 
Over rough roads the harsh wheels; the brazen tubes 
Flash'd in the sun their fearful splendour far, 

•"'Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care procur'd 
Human defence, neglectful to implore 
That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength 
Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets 
The precious relics of the holy dead, 
Tlie monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest prayer 
Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine 
Was throng'd by supplicants ; the general voice 
Call'd on Saint Aignan's name again to save 
His people, as of j'ore, betbre he past 
Into the i'ulness of eternal rest. 
When by the Spirit to the lingering camp 
Of J]]tius borne, he brought the timely aid. 
And Attila with all his multitudes 
Far oir retreated to their field of shame." 

And now Dunois, for he had seen the camp 
Well-order'd, enter 'd. " One night more in peace 
England shall rest," he cried, " ere yet the storm 
Bursts on her guilty head ! then their proud vaunts 
Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame. 
Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when fii'st 
They pitch'd theu- tents round Orleans." 

" Of that siege,*^ 
The Maid of Arc replied, " gladly I hear 
The detail. Isabel, proceed ! for soon 
De&tin'd to rescue that devoted town, 
All that has chanced, the ills she has endur'd. 
I listen sorrowiug for the past, and feel 


High satisfaction at the saviour power 
To me commission'd." 

Thvis tlie virgin spake. 
Nor Isabel delayed. " And now more near 
The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. 
Unnnmber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts, 
Anticipating conquest, rend the air 
With universal uproar. From their camp 
A herald comes ; his garb emblazon'd o'er 
With leopards and the lilies of our realm ; 
Foul shame to France ! The summons of the foe 
He brought." 

The Bastard, interrupting, cried: 
" I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs. 
When by his office, privileged and proud. 
That herald spake, as certain of success 
As he had made a league with victory. 
' Nobles of France rebellious ! from the chief 
Of yon victorious host, the mighty earl 
Of Salisburj', now there in place of him 
Your regent John of Bedlbrd: in his name 
I come, and in our sovereign Lord the king's, 
Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim 
Incontrovertible to this good realm. 
By right descent, and solemnly confirm'd 
By your great monarch, and our mighty king, 
Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified 
At Troyes, wherein your monarch did disclaim 
All future right and title to this crown, . 
His own exempted, for his son and heirs 
Down to the end of time. This sign'd and scal'd 
At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot 
Of Henry and your Princess, jnelds the realm, 
Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son, 
Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose 
My master's title, in the face of God, 
Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime, 
Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst 
The Lord's anointed. He at Paris crown'd, 
With loud acclaim from the duteous multitude 
Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town 
To Salisbuiy, and yield yourselves and arms, 
So shad your lives be safe : and — mark his graoo ! 
If of your free accord, to him you pay 


Dae homage as your sovereign lord and king. 
Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe, 
And you in favour stand, as is the duke, 
Philip of Burgundy. But — mark we well! 
If obstinately wilful, you persist 
To scorn his proiler'd mercy, not one stone 
Upon another of this wretched town 
Shall then be left: and when the English host 
Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers 
Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war 
Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand. 
Ye men of France, remember Caen and lloan !' 

" He ceased: nor Gaucour for a moment paus'd 
To form reply. 

' Herald ! to all thy vaunts 
Of English sovereignty let this suffice 
For answer: France will only own as king 
Him whom the people choose. On Charles's brow 
Transmitted through a long and good descent. 
The crown remains. We know no homage due 
To English robbers, and disclaim the peace 
Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men 
Hostile to France. Thy master's proffer'd grace 
Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, j'es. 
We shall remember Menux, and Caen, and Roan ! 
Go, tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury, 
That as like Blanchard, Gaucour dares his power; 
Like Blanchard, he can mock his cruelty. 
And triumph by enduring. Speak I well. 
Ye men of Orleans ?' 

" Never did I hear 
A shout so universal as ensued 
Of approbation. The assembled host 
As with one voice pour'd forth their loyaltj. 
And struck their soundmg shields. The towers of Orleans 
Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went. 
The work of war began." 

" A fearful scene," 
Cried Isabel. " The iron storm of death 
Clash'd in the sky; from the strong engines hurl'd 
Huge rocks with tempest force convulsed the air; 
Then was there heard at once the clang of arms. 
The bellowing cannons, and the soldier's shout, 


The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry, 
The groan of death : discord of dreadful sounds 
That jarr'd the soul ! 

Nor while the encircling foe 
Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept 
Our friends; for winning down the Loire its way 
The frequent vessel with provision fraught. 
And men, and all the artillery of death, 
Cheer'd us with welcome succour. At the hridgo 
These safely stranded mock'd the foeman's force. 
This to prevent, Salisbury, their watchful chief. 
Prepares the amazing work. Around our walls. 
Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus 
The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses, 
At equal distance, sixty forts protect 
The pile. But chief where in the sieged town, 
The six great avenues meet in the midst, 
Six castles there he rear'd impregnable. 
With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft, 
Where over the strong gate suspended hung 
The dread poi-tcullis. Thence the gunner's eye 
From his safe shelter could with ease survey 
Intended sally, or approaching aid, 
And point destruction. 

It were long to tell 
And tedious, how with many a bold assault 
The men of Orleans rush'd upon their foes; 
How after difficult fight the enemy 
Possess'd the ^^ Tournelles, and the embattled tower 
Tliat shadows from the bridge the subject Loire; 
Though numbering^Jnow three thousand daring men. 
Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd 
Their far-outnumbering foes. From every aid 
Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath 
A.11 ills accumulate. The shatter'd roofs 
Gave to the dews of night free passage there, 
And ever and anon the ponderous stone, 
Euining where'er it fell, with hideous crash 
Came like an earthquake, startling from his sleep 
The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings 
The wild fire-balls shower 'd through the midnight sky. 
And often their huge engines cast among us 
The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp. 
As though our enemies, to most deadly league 


Forcing the common air, would make us breathe 

Poisonous pollution. Through the streets were seen 

The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste 

Piled up and steaming to infected Heaven. 

For ever the incessant storm of death 

Pours down, and shrouded in unwholesome vaults 

The wretched females hide; not idle there, 

"Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ 'd. 

Or to provide the himgry soldier's meal. 

Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds; 

A sad equality of wretchedness ! 

" Now came the worst of ills, for famine came 1 
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole. 
Yielding so little a supply to life 
As but protracted death. The loathliest food 
Hunted with eager eye, and dainty deem'dj 
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 
Howluig with hunger lay; with jealous fear. 
Hating a rival's look, the husband hides 
His miserable meal; the famished babe 
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast? 
And— horrible to tell ! — where, thrown asida 
There lay unburied in the open streets 
Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands 
Eager to seize the carrion crow lor food. 

" Oh, peaceful scenes of childhood ! pleasant fieldu i 
Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd 
Tracing the brook along its winding way. 
Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed 
Chased the .eay butterlly from flower to flower I 
Oh days in vain remember'd ! how my sou!. 
Sick with calamity, and the sore ills 
Of hunger, dwelt upon you ! quiet home ! 
Thmking of you amid the waste of war, 
I could in bitterness have cursed the great 
Who made me what I was — a helpless one, 
Orphan'd, and wanting bread!" 

" And be they curst," 
Conrade exclalm'd, his dark eye Hashing rage, 
" And be they curst ! groves and woodland shades. 
How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod 
Should one day from oppression's hand be wrenched 


By everlasting justice ! come that hour 

When in the sun the angel of the Lord 

Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of heaven, 

' Gather ye to the supper of your God, 

That ye may eat the Hesh of mighty men. 

Of captains, and of kings !' Then shall be peace." 

"And now, lest all should perish," she pursued, 
"The females and the intirm must from the town 
Go forth, and seek theii- fate. 

I will not nov.' 
Recal the moment when on mj'^ poor Francis 
With a long look I hung ! At dead of night. 
Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark, 
And glide adown the stream with silent oars. 
Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind, 
I. wandered reckless where, till wearied out 
And cold at heart, I laid me down to die: 
So by this warrior found, llim I had known 
And loved, for aU loved Conrade who had known lilm; 
Nor did I feel so pressing the hard hand 
Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence 
On perilous envoy. For of his small fare" — 

" Of this enough," said Conrade. " Holy Maid ! 
One duty yet awaits me to perform. 
Orleans her envoy sent me, claiming aid 
From her inactive sovereign. Willingly 
Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise, 
For rumour had already made me fear 
The ill that has fallen on me. It remains. 
Ere I do banish me from human kind. 
That I re-enter Orleans, and announce 
Thy march. 'Tis night — and hark ! how dead a silence J 
Fit houi' to tread so perilous a path !" 

So saying, Conrade from the tent V7ent farth. 

iOAJH 0? ARC. 63 

^t BMi^ §Mii. 

Conrade on his way to Orleans releases a French soldier. Council ol 
tlie leaders. Summons of the Jlaid to the English Generals. The 
Slaid attacks, defeats them, and enters Orleans in triumph at mid- 
night, amid thunder and lightning. 

The night was calm, and many a moving cloud 

Sliadowed the moon. Along the forest glade 

With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd 

The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire, 

Cheer'd with the song, the rustics had beheld 

The day go down upon their merriment: 

No song of peace now echoed on its banks. 

There tents were pitched, and there the sentinel, 

Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld 

The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream. 

Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way. 

Shunning the camp, now hush'd in sleep and still. 

And now no somid was heard save of the Loire, 

Murmuring along. The noise of commg feet 

Alarm'd him; nearer di"ew the fearful sound 

As of pursuit; anon — the clash of arms! 

That instant rismg o'er a broken cloud 

The moonbeams shone, where two with combined forc^ 

Prest on a single foe; he, warding still 

Theii- swords, retreated in the unequal fight, 

As he would make the city. Conrade sliook 

His long lance for the war, and strode along. 

Full in the breast of one with forceful arm 

Plunged he the spear of death ; and as, dismayed 

The other fled, " Now haste we to the gates, 

Frenchman !" he cried. On to the stream they speed, 

And plunging stemm'd with sinewy stroke the tide. 

Soon on the opposite shore arrived and safe. 

" Wlicnce art thou?" cried the warrior; " on what charpc 
Commission'd ?" 


" Is it not the voice of Conrade ?" 
Francis exclaim'd; " and dost thou bring to liS 
Tidings of speedy aid ? oil ! had it come 
A few hours earlier ! Isabel is gone 1" 

"Nay, she is safe," cried Conrade; "her I found 
When wilder'd in the forest, and consign'd 
To the protection of that holy Maid, 
The delegate of Heaven. One evening more 
And thou shalt have thine Isabel. Now say. 
Wherefore alone ? A fugitive from Orleans, 
Or sent on dangerous service li-om the town ?'* 

" There is no food in Orleans," he replied. 
" Scarce a meal more ! the assembled chiefs resolved. 
If thou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid, 
To cut then- way to safety, or by death 
Prevent the pang of famine.^- One they sought 
Who venturous in the English camp should spy 
Where safest they might rush upon the foe. 
The perilous task I chose, then desperate 
Of happiness." 

So saying, they approach'd 
The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard 
Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance 
Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voico 
He di-aws the strong bolts back, and painful turns 
The massy entrance. To the careful chiefs 
They pass. At midnight of their extreme state 
Counselling they sat, serious and stern. To them 

" Assembled warriors ! sent fi-om God 
There is a holy Maid by miracles 
Made manifest. Twelve hundred chosen men 
Follow her hallowed standard. These Dunois, 
The strength of France, arrays. With the next nooB 
Ye shall behold their march." 

Seized the convened chiefs, and joy by doubt 
Little repress'd. " Open the granaries !" 
Xaintrailles exclaim'd; " give we to all the host 
With hand unsparing now the plenteous meal; 
To-morrow we are safe ! for Heaven all just 
Has seen our sufferings and decreed their end. 


Let the glad tidings echo thi'ough the town ! 
God is with us !" 

" Eest not in too full faith," 
Graville replied, " on this mii'aculous aid. 
Some IVenzied female whose wild phantasy. 
Shaping vain di-eams, infects the credulous 
With her own madness ! that Dunois is there. 
Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men, 
Cheers me : yet let not we our little food 
Be lavish'd, lest the warrior in the fight 
Should haply fail, and Orleans be the prey 
Of England'!" 

" Chiei ! I tell thee," Conrade cried, 
" I did myself behold the sepulchre. 
Fulfilling what she spake, give up those arms 
That surely for no common end the grave 
Thi'ough many an age has held inviolate. 
She is the delegate of the Most High, 
And shall deliver Orleans !" 

Gaucour then, 
" Be it as thou hast said. High hope I feel. 
For to no vulgar tale would Com-ade yield 
Belief, or he the Bastard. Our small stores 
Must yield us, ere another week elapse. 
To death or England. Tell through all our troops 
There is a holy Virgin sent fi'om God; 
They in that faith invincible shall war 
With more than mortal fury." 

Thus the chief, 
And what he said seemed good. The men of Orleans, 
Long by their foemen bayed, a victim band 
To war, and woe, and want, such transport felt. 
As when the Mexicans,^ with eager eye 
Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top, 
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn 
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire 
Flame on the breast of some brave prisoner, 
A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze 
Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers. 
Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far. 
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy 
Wake the loud echo; the glad husband tears 
The mantling aloe from the female's face, 
Aiid childi-en, now delivered from the dread 


Of everlasting darkness, look abroad, 

Hail the good omen, and expect the sun 

Uninjured stiU to run his ilaming race. 

Thus whilst in that besieged town the night 

Wan'd sleepless, silent slept the hallowed host. 

And now the morning came. From his hard couch. 

Lightly upstarting and bedight in arms, 

The Bastard moved along, with provident eye 

Marshalling the troops. All high in hope thej' march. 

And now the sun shot from the southern sky 

His noon-tide radiance, when afar tliey hear 

The hum of men, and mark the distant towers 

Of Orleans, and the bulwai'ks of the foe. 

And many a streamer wantoning in air. 

These as they saw and thouglit of all the ills 

Their brethren had endured, beleaguer'd there 

For many a month ; such ardour lor the fight 

Bui-nt in each bosom, as young Ali felt 

When to the assembled tribe Mohammed spake. 

Asking for one his Vizir. Fierce in faith 

Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth, 

" Prophet of God ! lo, I will be the man !" 

And well did Ali merit that high post. 

Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale. 

And on mount Ohud, and before the walls 

Of Chaibar, then when cleaving to the chest 

His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gale. 

Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort, 

And lifted it in air, portentous shield ! 

"Behold the towers of Orleans," cried Dunois, 
" Lo ! this the vale where on the banks of Loiie, 
Of yore, at close of day the rustic band 
Danced to the roundelay. In younger years 
As oil I glided down the silver stream. 
Frequent upon the lifted oar I paus'd 
Listening the sound of far-off merriment. 
There wave the English banners ! martial ]\Iaid, 
Give thou the signal — let me rush upon 
These ministers of murder, who have sack'd 
The fruitful fields, and made the hamlet haunts 
Silent — or hearing but the widow's groan. 
Give thou the signal, Maiden !" 

Her dark eye 


Fix'd sadly on the foe, the holy Maid 

Answer'd him. " Ere the bloody sword be drawn. 

Ere slaughter be let loose, befits us send 

Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known 

The will of Heaven. So timely warn'd, oui" foes 

Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace 

Besieged Orleans. Victory is sad 

When even one man is i j'der'd." 

So she said. 
And as she spake a soldier from the ranks 
Advanced. " I will be th)'' messenger, 
Maiden of God ! I to the English camp 
Will bear thy bidding." 

" Go," the Virgin cried, 
" Say to the chief of Salisbury, and the host 
Attending, Suffolk, Fastolfl'o, Talbot, Scales, 
Invaders of the country, say, thus says 
The Maid of Orleans. ' With your troops retii'e 
In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys 
Restore to Charles; so bloodless j-ou may seek 
Your native England; for the God of Hosts 
Thus has decreed. To Charles tlie rightful heir, 
By long descent and voluntary choice. 
Of duteous subjects hath the Lord assign'd 
His conquest. In his name the Virgin comes 
Arm'd Avith his sword; yet not of mercy void. 
Depart in peace: for ere the morrow dawns. 
Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave 
The holy banner.' " To the English camp 
Fearless the warrior strode. 

At midday-meal. 
With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth, 
The British chiefs carous'd and qualf'd the bowl 
To future conquest. B}^ the sentinel 
Conducted came the Frank. 

"Chiefs," he exclaim'd, 
" Salisbury, and ye the representatives 
Of the English king, usurper oi this realm; 
To ye the leaders of the invading host 
I come, no welcome messenger. Thus says 
The Maid of Orleans. ' With your troops retire 
In peace. Of every captur'd town the keys 
Restore to Charles; so bloodless you may seek 
Your native Englaud; for the God of Hosts 


Thus has decreed. To Charles the rightful heir. 
By long descent and voluntary choice 
Ot" duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'u 
His conquest. In his name the Vu'gin comes, 
Arm'd with his sword, j-et not of mercy void. 
Depai't in peace: for ere the morrow dawns, 
Victorious upon Orleans' wall shall wave 
The holy banner.' " 

Wonder made a pause; 
To this the laugh succeeds. " What !" Fastolffe cried, 
" A woman warrior has your monarch sent 
To save devoted Orleans ? By the rood, 
I thank his Grace. If she be young and fair, 
Ko worthless prize, my lords ! Go tell your Maid, 
Joyful we wait her coming." 

There was one 
Among the English chiefs, who had gi-own old 
In arms, yet had not age unnerved his limbs, 
But fi'om the flexile nimbleness of youth 
Braced to unyielding strength. One, who had seen 
The warrior at the feast, might well have deem'd 
That Talbot with his whole collected might 
Wielded the sword in war; for on his neck 
The veins were full, and evevj muscle bore 
Most powerful character He his stern eye 
Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake, 
His silence threaten'd- 

" Get thee gone !" exclaimed 
The indignant chief; " away ! nor think to scare 
With girlish phantasies the English host 
That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee hence. 
Insolent herald ! tell this frantic girl, 
This courtly minion, to avoid my wrath, 
For if she dares the war, I will not stain 
My good-blood-rusted sword — but she shall meet 
The mockery of the camp !" 

" Nay, scare her not," 
Replied their chief; " go tell this Maid of Orleans, 
That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight. 
Is' or let her fear that rude and iron chains 
Shall gall her tender limbs ; for I myself 
WiU be her prison, and " 

" Contemptuous man ! 
Ko more," the Frank exclaimed, as to his cheek 


Rush'd the red anger. " Bearmg words of peace 
And timely warning, came I to vour camp, 
Here with rude mockery and stern insolence 
Received. Bear witness, chieftains ! that the French, 
Free from blood-guiltine«s, shall meet the war." 

" And who art thou ?" cried Suffolk, and his eye 
Grew fierce and wrath-inflamed; " what fool art thou 
That at this woman's bidding comest to brave 
The host of England ? Thou shalt have thy meed !" 
Then, turning to the sentinel, he cried, 
" Prepare the stake! and let the men of Orleans, 
And let this woman, who believes her name 
May privilege her apostle, see the fii-e 
Consume him. Build the stake ! for by my God 
He shall be kalendered of this new faith 
Fii"st martjT." 

As he spake, a sudden ilush 
Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat 
With quicker action; but the sudden flush, 
Alarmed Nature's impulse, faded soon 
To such a steady hue as spake the soul 
Rous'd up with all its powers, and unsubdued, 
And glorying in endurance. Through the camp 
Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose, 
A hideous shout, more savage than the howl 
Of midnight wolves; and round the Frank thej^ throng'd 
To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on. 
And as they led him to the appointed place 
Look'd roimd, as though forgetful of himself. 
And cried aloud, " Oh ! I am sad to think 
So many men shall never see the sun 
Go down ! Ye English mothers, mourn ye now. 
Daughters of England, weep ! for hard of heart 
Still your mad leaders m'ge the impious war, 
And for their folly and their wickedness, 
Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must falL 
Long-suffering is the Lord, and slow to wrath. 
But heavy are his judgments !" 

He who spake 
Was young and comely; had his cheek been pale 
With dread, and had his eye look'd fearfully, 
Sure he had won compassion; but the blood 
Gave now a livelier meaning to his cheek, 


As \v\i\i a prophet's look and prophet's voia. 
lie spake the ominous words: and they who heard, 
Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake urged on 
With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil, 
And doubted what might follow. 

Not unseen 
I^sar'd they the stake, and piled around the wood; 
in sight of Oi-leans and the Maiden's host, 
Had Suffolk's arrogant fierceness bade the work 
Of deatli be done. The Maiden's host beheld : 
At once in eager wrath they rais'd the loud 
And general clamour, " Lead us to the foe !" 
"Not upon us, God!" the Maid exclaira'd, 
" Not upon us cry out the innocent blood !" 
And bade the signal sound. In the English camp 
The clarion and the trumpet's blai-e was heard, 
In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form. 
Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear 
Even from themselves, some silently in prayer. 
For much their hearts misgave them. 

But the rage 
Of Suffolk swell'd within liim, " Speed your work !" 
Exclaim'd the savage carl ; " kindle the pile. 
That France may see the fire, and in defeat 
Feel aggravated shame !" 

And now they bound 
The herald to the stake: he cried aloud. 
And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, " Let not him 
Who girdeth on his harness boast himself 
As he that puts it off ! They come ! they come ! 
God and the Maid !" 

The host of France approached, 
And Suffolk eagerly beheld the fire 
Draw near the pile: sudden a fearful shout 
Towards Orleans tiu'n'd his eye, and thence he saw 
A mailed man iipon a mailed steed 
Come thundering on. 

As when Chederles comes 
To aid the righteous on his deathless steed. 
Swaying his sword with such resistless arm, 
Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaii'd 
The hidden waters of eteraal youth. 
Till with the copious draught of life and stren<,'th 
Inebriate; such, so fierce, so terrible, 

JOAN OF Ar.c. 71 

Came Conrade through the camp; ainght, aleft 
The affrighted English scatter I'rom his spear. 
Onward he drives, and now the circling throng 
Fly from the stake; and now he checks his course. 
And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live. 
And ai'm, and fight, and conc[uer. 

" Haste thee hence 
" To Orleans," cried the warrior, " Tell the chiets 
There is confusion in the English camp. 
Bid them come forth." On Conrade's steed tlie youth 
Leapt up and hasten'd onwai'd. He the while 
Turn'd to the war. 

Like two conflicting clouds. 
Pregnant with thunder, rush'd the hostile hosts. 
Then man met man, then, on the batter'd shield, 
Rung the loud lance, and through the darken'd skj 
Past fell the arrowy storm. Amid his foes 
The Bastard's arm sway'd irresistible 
The strokes of death; and by his side the Maid 
Led the fierce fight — the Maid, though all unused 
To the rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven, 
Plashing her flamy falchion through the troops. 
That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell, 
Scattered the trembling ranks; the Saracen, 
Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields 
A weaker sword ; nor might that magic blade 
Compare Avith this that Oriana saw 
Plame in the brutal Ardan's robber hand, 
When, sick and cold as the grave, she turn'd away 
Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the death 
Of her own Amadis. Nor plated shield, 
Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque. 
Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved. 
Like as the angel of the Lord went forth 
And smote his army, when the Assyrian king. 
Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen, 
Blasphem'd the God of Israel. 

Yet the fight 
Hung doubtful where, exampling hardiest deeds, 
Salisbury mow'd down the foe, and Pastolfle strove. 
And in the hottest doings of the war 
Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day 
When from his name the affrighted sons of Pranct 
Fled tremblmg, all astonish'd at their force 


And wontless valour, rages round the field 
Dreadful iii fmy; yet in every man 
Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith 
Of Heaven's assistance firm. 

The clang of arms 
Eeaches the walls of Orleans. For the war 
Prepared, and confident of victory, 
Speed forth tlie troops. Not when afar exhaled 
The himgry raven snufis the steam of blood 
That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame 
Taints the pure air, wings he more eagerly 
To riot on the gore, than rush'd the ranks; 
Impatient now, for many an ill endured 
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes 
Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray; 
The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun. 
Now quenched in blood their radiance. 

O'er the host 
Howl'd the deep wind that, ominous of storms, 
EoD'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night 
Frown'd, and the thunder from the troubled sky 
Eoar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers rang; 
Shield prest on shield; loud on the helmet jarr'd 
The ponderous battle-axe; the frequent groan 
Of death commingling with the storm was heard. 
And the shrill slu'iek of fear. 

Even such a storm 
Before the walls of Chartres quell'd the pride 
Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail 
Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard 
God in the tempest, and remembered him 
Of the widows he had made, and, in the name 
Of blessed Mary, vowed the vow of peace. 
Lo ! where the holy banner waved aloft. 
The lambent lightnmgs play'd. Irradiate round, 
As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field 
It stream'd miraculous splendour. Then their heartf 
Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear 
Possessed, as when the combined host beheld 
The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice 
Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote 
The country of the hills, and of the south, 
From Baal-gad to Halak, and their kings, 
Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled 

soxy OF AP.c. 73 

From that portentons banner, and the swo;d 
Of France; though Talbot, with vain valiancy. 
Yet urged the war, and stemni'd alone the tide 
Of conquest. Even their leaders felt dismay; 
Fastolife fled fast, and Salisbury in the rout 
Mingles, and, all impatient of defeat. 
Borne backward, Talbot turns. Then echoed loud 
The cry of conquest; deeper grew the storm; 
And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing, 
Brooded the field of death. 

Nor in the camp 
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives. 
On to the forts tliey haste. Bewilder'd there 
Amid the moats by fear, and the dead gloom 
Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops, 
Crush'd by fast following numbers, who partake 
The death they give. As rushing from the snows 
Of winter liquefied, the torrent tide 
Resistless down the mountain rolls along, 
Till at the brink of giddy precipice 
Arrived, with deafening clamour down it falls : 
Thus borne along, the affrighted English troops, 
Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid 
The liquid death. Then rose the di-eadful cries 
More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waves 
That to the passing lightning as they broke 
Gleam'd horrible. 

Nor of the host so late 
Triumphing in the pride of victory, 
And swoln with confidence, had now escaped 
One wretched remnant, had not Talbot's mind. 
Slow as he moved unwilling from the war. 
What most might profit the defeated ranks 
Pondered. He, reaching safe the massy fort, 
By St. John's name made holy, kindled up 
The guiding fire. Not unobserved it blazed; 
The v/atchful guards on Tournellcs, and the pile 
Of that proud city, in remembrance fond 
Call'd London, light the beacon. Soon the firea 
Flame on the summit of the circling forts 
That, firm entrenched with walls and deep-delved moats 
Included Orleans. O'er the shadowy plain 
Tbey cast a lurid splendour; to the troops 
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller. 


Wandering with parched feet o'er the Ai-ahian sands, 
The far-seen cistern; he for many a league 
Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved 
With tempest swell the desert billows round, 
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past, 
Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave 
So long bewail'd. 

Swift as the affrighted herd 
Scud o'er the plain, when frequent through the sky 
Flash the fierce lightnings, speed the routed host 
Of England. To the sheltering forts they haste. 
Though safe, of safety doubtful, still appall'd 
And trembling, as the pilgrim, who by night 
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl 
Hears the wood echo, when from the fell beast 
Escaped, of some tall tree the topmost branch 
He gi'asps close cluiging, still of that keen fang 
Eearful, his teeth jar, and the big drops stand 
On his cold quivering limbs. 

Nor now the Maid, 
Greedy of vengeance, urges the pursuit. 
She bids the trumpet of retreat resoimd; 
A pleasant music to the routed ranks 
Blows the loud blast. Obedient to its voice 
The French, though eager on the invaders' heads 
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword. 

Loud is the cry of conquest, as they turn 
To Orleans. There what few to guai'd the town. 
Unwilling had remained, haste forth to meet 
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held, 
That rais'd aloft, amid the midnight storm, 
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced : 
Deep^* through the sky the hollow thunders roU'd; 
Innocuous lightnings roimd the hallowed banner 
Wreathed their red radiance. 

Through the opened gata 
Slow past the laden convoy. Then was heard 
The shout of exultation, and such joy 
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight 
Possess'd, as when fi-om Bactria late subdued. 
The Macedonian Madman led his troops 
Amid the Sogdian desert where no stream 
Wastes on the wild its fertiUzing waves; 


Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed; 
Scorch'd by the suii that o'er their morning march 
Steam'd his hot vapours, heart-subdued and faint; 
Sixch joy as then they felt, when from the heights 
Burst the soul-gladdening sound! for thence was seen 
The evening sun silveruig the vale below. 
Where Oxus roll'd along. 

Clamours of joy 
Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont 
Long time to hear the infant's feeble ciy. 
The mother's fi-antic shriek, or the dread sound. 
When from the caimon burst its stores of death, 
Far flames the fire of joy on min'd piles, 
And high-heap'd carcasses, whence scared away 
From his abhoi'red meal on clattering wing 
Rose the night-raven slow. 

In the English forta 
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night 
Steals in the straggling fugitive; as when 
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky 
Serenely shines the sun; with every breeze 
The waving branches di-op then- gather'd raJn, 
I'encwir!/:: the remembrance of the stiorm. 

76 .TOA3j^ OF Ana 

^Ire Stlynitlr §0011. 

Description of the English forts. The French troops attack and cap- 
ture tlie forts of St. Loup and St. John. Attack of Fort London. 
Sali^hiiry encounters the Maid. Event of encounter. Tlis 
Touruelles surrounded by the French, wlio despatch a troop to 
Orleans for provisions, and encamp before it for the night. 

Steono were llie En!:]^lisli forts, by daily toil 
Of thousands rear'd on high, when arrogant 
With fancied conquest, Salisbury bade rise 
The amazing pile, from succour to include 
Besieged Orleans. Round the city walls 
Stretched the wide circle, massy as the fence 
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds 
Of Caledonia rais'd, for soul-enslaved, 
Her hireling plunderers fear'dthe car-borne chiefs 
Who rush'd from Morven down. 

Strong battlements 
Crested the mighty bulwark, on whose top 
Secure the charioteer might wheel along. 
Tlie frequent buttress at just distance rose» 
Declining from its base, and sixty forts 
Lifted aloft their turret-crowned heads. 
All firm and massy. But of these most firm. 
As though of some large castle each the keep. 
Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd. 
Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd weal: 
'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely hence 
The skilful archer, entering with his eye 
The citj', might, himself the while unseen, 
Through the long opening shower his winged deaths. 
Loire's waves divei'ted, fill tb.c deep-dug moat. 
Circling the pile, a bulwark vast, as Avhat 
Round their disheartened camp and stranded ships 
The Greeks uprear'd, a common sepulchre 
Of thousands slaughtered, and the doom'd death-place 
Of many a chief, when Priam's patriot son 
Rush'd in his wrath, and scattered their pale tribes. 


But, ooweniijf now amid their sheltering forts. 
Tremble the English host. Their leader's care, 
In anxious vigilance, prepares to ward 
Assault expected. Nor the Maid's intent 
Did he not rightly areed; thougli vain the at'.eript 
To kindle in theii- breasts the wonted flame 
Of valour, for by prodigies unmann'd, 
They wait the morn; the soldiers' pride was gone. 
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay 
Unburnish'd and detiled, they sharpened not 
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand 
Relaxed not his bent bow. To them, confused 
With fears of unknown danger, the long night 
Was di'eadful; but more dreadful dawn'd the day. 
The morning came. The martial Maid arose. 
Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate. 
Eager again for conquest, throng the troops. 
High towered the Son of Orleans, in his strength 
Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield, 
Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight, 
Hung on his smewy arm. 

" Maiden of Arc," 
So as he spake, approaching, cried the chief, 
" Well hast thou prov'd thy mission, as, by words 
And miracles attested, when dismayed, 
The stern theologists forget their doubts. 
So in the field of slaughter now confirm'd. 
Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives, 
And seem as in tlieir strength they mock'd our fc-rce. 
Yet must they fail." 

" And fall they shall !" replijj 
The Maid of Orleans. " Ere the sun be set 
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave 
IViumphant. — Men of France ! ye have fouglit well 
On that blood-reeking plain. Your humbled iocs 
Lurk trembling now amid theu- massy walls; 
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected iloiik! 
The Shepherd — the great Shepherd is arisen ! 
Ye fly ! yet shall not ye by flight escape 
His vengeance. Men of Orleans ! it were vain 
By words to waken wrath within your breasts. 
Look round ! Your holy buildings and your homes-— 
lluins that choke the way 1 your populous town — ■ 
One open sepulclii'e I Who is there here 


That does not rnoui-n a friend, a brother slain, 
A parent famish'd, or his dear loved wife 
Torn from his bosom — outcast — broken hearted — 
Cast on the mercy of mankind ?" 

She ceased. 
The cry of indignation from the host 
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war 
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays 
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war, 
Commands the fii'st; Xaintrailles, who oft subdued 
By adverse fortune to the captive chain. 
Still more tremendovis to the enemy. 
Lifted his death-fraught lance, as erst from earth 
Anteeus, vaunting in his giant bulk, 
When graspt by force Herculean, do'vvn he fell 
Vanquisht; anon uprose more fierce for war. 

Gaucour o'er one presides, the steady friend 
To loug-imprison'd Orleans; of his town 
Beloved guardian; he the dreadful siege 
Firmly abiding, prudent still to plan 
Irruption, and with youthful vigour swift 
To lead the battle; from his soldiers' love 
Prompter obedience gained, than ever fear 
Forced from the heart reluctant. 

The third band 
Alencon leads. He on the fatal field 
Verneuil, when Buchan and the Douglas died, 
Fell senseless. Guiltless he of that day's loss. 
Wore undisgraccd awhile the captive chain. 
The monarch him mindful of his high rank 
Had ransom'd, once again to meet the foe 
With better fortune. 

O'er the last presides 
Dunois the Bastard, mighty in the war. 
}Iis prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame 
Conless'd, since when befoi"e his stripling arm 
Fled Warwick. Warwick, he whose fan- renown 
Greece knew, and Antioch, and the holy soil 
Of Palestine, smce there in arms he pass'd 
On gallant pilgrimage, yet by Dunois 
Bafiled, and yieldiiig hiin the conqueror's praise. 
And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd, 
Lovely in arms as that Arcadian boy 


Parthenopa2UH, when the war of beasts 
Disdaiiiing, he to murder man rush'd forth. 
Bearing the bow, and those Dictasan shafts 
Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form 
Saw softened, and forgave the mother's fault. 

Saint Loup's strong fort stood first. Here Gladdudale 
Commands the fearful troops. 

As lowering clouds 
Swept by the hoarse wind o'er the blacken'd plain 
Mov'd on the host of France : they from the fort 
Through secret opening, shower their pointed shafts. 
Or from the battlements the death-tipt spear 
Hiu'l fierce. Nor fi-om the strong arm only launch'd 
The javelin fled, but driven by the strained force 
Of the balista, in one cai'cass spent, 
Stay'd not; thi'ough arms and men it makes its way. 
And leaving death behind, still holds its course. 
By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march 
Bight onward they advanced, and soon the shafts, 
ImpeU'd by that strong sti-oke beyond the host. 
Wasting their force, feU harmless. Now they reach'd. 
Where by the bayle's embattled wall in arms. 
The knights of England stood. There Poynings shook 
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace. 
For the death-blow prepar'd. Alencon here, 
And here the Bastard strode, and by the Maid 
That daring man, who to the English host, 
Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd. 
Bore her bold bidding. A rude coat of mail, 
Unhosed, imhooded, as of lowly line 
Arm'd him. Though here amid the high-born chiefs 
Pre-eminent for prowess. On his head 
A black plume shadowed the rude-featur'd helm. 
Then was the war of men, when fi'ont to fi-out 
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall 
VVliere the bold Frenchman's upwaixl-diiven spear 
Might pierce the foemen. 

As Alcncou moved, 
On his crown-crested helm, with ponderous blow. 
Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoU'd 
Astoimded ; soon recovering, his keen lance 
Thrust on the warrior's shield: there iast infix 'd. 
Nor could Alencon the deep-diiven speir 


Recover, nor tlie foeman from his grasp 

Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again 

He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt 

Fell lull; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held 

A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought^ 

The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail 

Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath, 

Blunted its point. Again he speeds the spear; 

At once Dunois on his broad buckler bears 

The unharmmg stroke, and aims Avith better fate. 

His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce 

Maugre the mail. Hot from the streaming wound 

Again the weapon fell, and in his breast, 

Even through the hauberk di-ove. 

But there the wra 
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved. 
The minister of wrath; for thither throng'd 
The bravest champions of the adverse host. 
And on her either side two warriors stood 
Of unmatch'd prowess, still with eager eye 
Shielding her Ibrm, and aimmg at her foes 
Theu" deadly weapons, of themselves the while 
Little regarding. One was that bold man 
Who bade defiance to the English chiefs. 
Firmly he stood, untu-'d and undismay'd, 
Tiiough on his bm-gonet the frequent spear 
Drove fierce, and on his arm the buckler hung 
Heavj'-, thick-bristled with the hostUe shafts. 
Even like the porcupine, when in his rage 
Rous'd, he collects within him all his force. 
Himself a quiver. And of loftier port, 
On the other hand towered Conrade, Fii-mly fenccdj 
A jazerent of double mail he wore, 
Beneath whose weight one but of common strengtii 
Had sunk. Untir'd the conflict he endur'd. 
Wielding a battle-axe ponderous and keen. 
That gave no second stroke; for where it fell. 
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail 
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head. 
As at the Maid he aimed his javelin, 
Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow 
The ii'on helm, and to his brain-pan di-ove 
The fragments. At their comi-ade's death amax'd, 
And for a inouisut feariul sliiuiik Ihe loes. 


That instant, Coiirade, with an active bound. 
Sprung on the battlements ; there firm lie stood; 
< iuurding ascent. The wai-rior Mnid of Ar.-> 
And he the partner of that battle's fame, 
Followed, and soon the existing cry of Frra-iK 
Along the lists was heard, as waved alcfi 
The holy banner. Gladdisdale behold, 
And hasting from his well-defended p^it, 
Sped to the fiercer conflict. To the JLud 
He strode, on her resolved to Avreak his rage, 
With her to end the war. Nor did not Joan 
Areed his purpose: lifting up her shield, 
Prepar'd she stood, and pois'd her sparkling spear. 
The English chief came on; he raised his mace; 
With circlmg force, the iron weight swung high, 
As Gladdisdale with his collected miglit 
Drove the full blow. The man of lowly line. 
That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield 
And met the broken blow, and thrust his lance 
Fierce through the gorget of the English knight. 
A gallant man, of no ignoble line, 
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace, 
Thej' heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread 
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar 
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died ; 
For them the venerable fathers pour'd 
A requiem when they slept, and o'er them rais'd 
The sculptured monument. Now far away 
Then' offspring falls, the last of all his race. 
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 
The common grave. 

Then terror seized the host 
Their chieftain dead. And lo ! where on the wall, 
Bulwark'd of late by Gladdisdale so well. 
The son of Orleans stood, and swayed around 
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe. 
Till on the battlements his comrades sprang, 
And rais'd the shout of conquest. Then appall'd 
The English fled; nor fled they un pursued. 
For mingling with the foremost fugitives. 
The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng. 
The knights of France together o'er the bridge 
Fast speeded. Nor the garrison with in 
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall, 


For in the entrance of the fort the fight 
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate 
The vanquish'd English and their eager foes 
Pass'd in the flying conflict. 

Well I deem 
And wisely did that daring Spaniard act 
At Vera-Cruz, when he his yet sound ships 
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear 
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back. 
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops 
In conquest sought then- safety. Victors hence 
At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans, 
And by Otompan, on that bloody field 
When Mexico her pati'iot thousands pour'd, 
Fierce in vain valour on their rufiian foes. 
There was a portal to the English fort 
That opened on the wall; a speedier path 
In the hour of safety, whence the chai-med eye 
Might linger down the river's pleasant course. 
Fierce in the gate- way raged the deadly war; 
For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there. 
And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom 
Fought not in that day's battle. Of success 
Desperate, for from above, the gan-ison 
Could wield no arms, so certain to bestow 
Equal destruction, of the portal's aid 
The foe bethought them: then with lesser force 
Their weapons fell; abandoned was the gate; 
And soon from Orleans the glad citizens 
Beheld the hallowed banner on the tower 
Triumphant. Swift along the lofty wall, 
The EngHsh haste to St. John's neighbom-ing fortj 
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit 
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives 
Mingled, and waged the war : the combatants, 
Lock'd in the hostile grasp, together fall 

But foremost of the French, 
Dealmg destruction, Conrade rush'd along: 
Heedless of danger, he to the near fort 
Pass'd in the fight; nor did not then the chief 
What most might serve bethink him! firm he stood 
In the portal, and one moment looking back. 
Lifted his loud voice; thrice the warrior cried, 


Then to the war addrest him; now assail'd 

Ey numerous foes, who arrogant of power. 

Threatened his single valovu*. He the while 

Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash, 

But of his own strength conscious, and the post 

Friendly; for narrow was the portal way. 

To one aloiie fit passage, from above, 

O'erbi'ow'd by no out-jutting parapet 

Whence death might crush him. He in double mail 

Was arm'd; a massy burgonet, well tried 

In many a hard-fought field, helming his head; 

A buckler broad, and fenced with iron plates, 

Bulwark'd his breast. Nor to dislodge the chief 

Could the English pour theu" numbers, for the way 

By upward steps, presented from the Ibrt 

Nai'row ascent, where one alone could meet 

The war. Yet were they of their numl:)ers proud. 

Though useless numbers were in that strait path. 

Save by assault unceasing to outlast 

A single warrior, who at length must sink. 

Fatigued with conquering, by long victory 


There was amid the garrison 
A fearless knight, who at Verneuil had fought, 
And high reno\vn for his bold chivahy 
Acquir'd in that day's conquest. To his fame 
The thronging Enghsh yield the foremost place. 
He his long javelin to transpierce the Frank 
Thrust forceful: harmless in his shield it fix'd. 
Advantaging the foe, for Conrade lifts 
The battle-axe, and smote upon the lance. 
And hurl'd its severed point with mighty arm 
Fierce on the foe. With waiy bend, the foe 
Shmnk fi'om the flying death; yet not in vain 
From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon fled : 
Full on the corselet of a meaner man 
It feU, and pierced, there where the heaving lungs. 
With purer air distended, to the heai't 
KoU back their purged tide : from the deep woxmd 
The red blood gush'd: prone on the steps he fell. 
And in the strong convulsive grasp of death, 
Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name 
Died the mean man; yet did he leave behind 
One who did never say her daily prayers 


Of him forgetful; ivb'^ to every tiile 
Of the distant war, lending an eager ear, 
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage dooTj 
The wretched one shall sit, and with dim eye 
Gaze o'er the plain, where on his parting steps. 
Her last look hung. ISTor ever shall she know 
Her husband dead, but tortur'd with vain hope, 
Gaze on — then heart-sick, turn to her poor babe, 
And weep it fatherless ! 

The enraged knight 
Drew his keen falchion, and with dauntless step 
Moved to the closer conflict. Then the Frank 
Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe 
Uplifted. Where the buckler was below 
Rounded, the falchion struck, but impotent 
To pierce its plated folds; more forceful driven, 
Fierce on his crested helm, the Frenchman's stroke 
Fell; the helm shivered; from his ej'es the blood 
Started; with blood, the chambers of the brain 
Were fiU'd; his breast-plate, with convulsive throes. 
Heaved as he fell; victorious, he the prize. 
At many a tournament had borne away 
In the mimic war: happy, if so content 
With bloodless glory, he had never left 
The mansion of his sires. 

But terrified 
The English stood; nor durst adventure now 
Near that death-doing man. Amid their host 
Was one who well could from the stubborn bow 
Shower his sharp shafts: well skill'd in wood-craft ho, 
Even as the merry outlaws, Avho thei'" haunts 
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse 
The sleeping stag, ere on the web- woven grass 
The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun. 
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd 
The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow; 
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string: 
And swift and strong the well-winged arrow tied. 
Deep in his shield it hung : then Conrade rais'd 
Again his echoing voice, and call'd for aid, 
Nor was the call unheard: the troops of France, 
From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall 
Haste to the portal; cheering was the sound 
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew 


His falchion forth, and down the steps he rush'd. 
Then tenor seized the English, for their foes 
Svvarm'd through the open portal, and the sword 
Of Conrade was among them. Not more fierce 
The injured Turnus swayed his angry arm. 
Slaughtering the robber fugitives of Troy; 
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris 
Rush'd he, the King of Sarza, Eodomont, 
Clad in his dragon mail. 

Like some tall rock. 
Around whose billow -beateir foot the waves 
Waste their wild fuiy, stood the unshaken man; 
Though round him prest his foemen, by despair 
H earten'd. He, mowing through the throng liis path, 
CaU'd on the troops of France, and bade them haste 
Where he should lead the vvay. A daring band 
Followed the adventurous chieftain: he moved on 
Unterritied, amid the arrowy shower. 
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast, 
As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree 
The autumnal whii'lwind shakes. 

Nor Conrade paus'd. 
Still through the fierce light urging on his way, 
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand 
Seiz'd on the massy bolts. These as he di'ew. 
Full on his helm the weighty English sword 
Descended; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath. 
When lo ! the assailant gasping on the ground. 
Cleft by the maiden's falchion: she herself 
To the foe opposing with that lowly man. 
For they alone following the adventurous steps 
Of Conrade, still had equall'd his bold course, 
Sliielded him, as with eager hand he di-ew 
The bolts: the gate turn'd slow: forth leapt the chief 
And sliivered with his battle-axe the chams 
That hung on high the bridge. The impetuous troops. 
By Gaucooi- led, rush'd o'er to victory. 

The banner'd lilie^ m the captm-'d wall 
Toss'd to the wind. " On to the neighbom'iug fort !" 
Cried Conrade, " Xamtrailles ! ere the night draws on 
Once more to conquest lead the troops of France ! 
Force ye the lists, and fill the deep-dug moat. 
And with the, ram shake down their batter'd walls. 


Anon I shall be with you " Thus he said; 
Then to the damsel. " ]\Iaid of Arc ! awhile 
Cease we fi-om battle, and by short repose 
Renew our strength." So saying he his helm 
Unlaced, and in the Lou-e's near-flowing stream 
Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd. 
And stooping to the stream, reflected there 
Saw her white plumage stain'd with human blood ! 
Shuddering she saw, but soon her steady soul 
Collected: on the banks she laid her down, 
Freely awhile respiring, for her breath 
Quick panted from the fight: silent they lay, 
For gratefully the cooling breezes bathed 
Their throbbing temples. 

It was now the neon: 
The sun-beams on the gently-waving stream 
Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay, 
And softening sadly his stern face, exclaim'd, 
" Maiden of Arc ! at such an horn- as this, 
Beneath the o'er-arcliing forest's chequer'd shade. 
With that lost woman have I wandered on. 
Talking of years of happiness to come ! 
Oh houi-s for ever fled ! delightful dreams 
Of the unsuspecting heart ! I do believe 
If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd 
Her love, that though mine aching heart had niirrft 
Its sorrows, I had never on her choice 
Pour'd one upbraiding — but to stoop to him I 
A harlot ! — an adulteress !" 

In his eye 
Red anger flash'd ; anon of what she was 
Ere yet the foul pollution of the Court 
Stam'd her fair fame, he thought. " Oh, happy age !* 
He cried, " when all the family of man 
Freely enjoyed their goodly heritage. 
And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God ! 
Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along, 
TiU o'er the peaceful rustic's head, grew grey 
The hairs in fuU of time. Then he would sit 
Beneath the coetaneous oak, whilst round, 
Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to fora 
The blameless merriment; and learnt of him 
What time to yoke the oxen to the plough. 
What hollow meanings of the western wind 


Poretel the storm, and in what lurid clouds 

The embryo lightning lies. Well pleas'd, lie taught. 

The heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek, 

Mild as the summer's sim's decaying light. 

Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on 

Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length. 

Around the bed of death his numerous race 

Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief. 

His last advice, and caught his latest sigh: 

And when he died, as he had fallen asleep, 

Beneath the aged tree that grew with him 

They delved the narrow house: there oft at eve 

Drew round their children of the after days 

And pointing to the turf, told how he lived. 

And taught by his example how to die. 

IMaiden ! and such the evening of my days 

Fondly I hoped; and would that I had lived 

In those old times, or till some better years 

Slumber'd unborn; for this is a hard race, 

An evil generation ! nor by day 

Nor in the night have respite from their carei* 

And %vretchedness. But I shall be at rest 

Soon, in that better world of peace and love 

Where evil is not: in that better world 

Joan ! we shall meet, and he too will be there. 

Thy Theodore." 

Sooth'd by his words, the Maid 
Had listened sadly, till at that loved name 
She wept. " Nay, Maid !" he cried, " I did not think 
To wake a tear; but pleasant is thy grief! 
Thou knowest not what it is, round thy warm heart 
To have a liaise one wreath in viper folds. 
But to the battle ! in the clang of arms. 
We win forgetfulness." 

Then from the bank 
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose, 
Bidding awhile adieu to milder thoughts. 
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd 
England's proud capital to the English host. 
Now half subdued, anticipating death. 
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs 
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps 
Through every vein: already they turn back 
Their eager eyes to meditate the flight, 


Though Talbot there presided, with tlieir chief. 
The gallant Salisbiuy. 

" Soldiers famed in arms " 
Thus, in vain hope to renovate the strength 
Of England, spake the chief: " Victorious friends, 
So oft victorious in the hard-fought fight. 
What — shrink ye now dismay'd ? have ye forgot 
The plains of Azincour, when vanquish'd France 
Fled with her thousands from yom- fathers' arms, 
Though worn with sickness ? or your own exploits. 
When on Verneuil, the tlower of chivalry 
Fell hy your daring prowess ? when the Scot 
Bit the'red earth in death, and Narbonne died; 
And the young boaster this Alencon felt 
The weight of English fetters ? then we broke 
The plated shield, and cleil the warrior's helm. 
For ever victors. On Baugenci's wall 
Ye placed the English flag; beneath your force 
Fell Jenville and Gergeau, the neighbouring towns 
Of well-nigh captured Orleans. I omit 
To speak of Caen subdued, and vanquish'd Roan, 
And that late day when Clermont tied the iiglit, 
And the young Bastard of that prison'd duke. 
Shame ! shame ! that beaten boy is here in arms, 
And ye -will fly before the fugitives; 
Fly from a woman ! from a fi-enzied girl ! 
That with her empty mummeries, would blast 
Your courage; or if mii'acles she brings. 
Aid of the devil ! who is there among j'ou 
False to his country — to his former fame — 
To me — your leader in the frequent field, 
The field of glory P" 

From the heartless host 
A timid shout arose; then Talbot's cheek 
Grew red with indignation. " Earl !" he cried, 
Addi'essmg him the chief: " there is no hope 
From these white-liver'd dastards; and tliis fort 
Will fall an easy conquest: it were well 
To reach the Tournelles, better fortified, 
Fit to endm-e long siege: the hope in view 
To reach a safer fortress, these our troops 
Shall better dare the battle." 

So he spake, 
Wisely advising. Him the chief replied: 


" Well hast thou said: and, Talbot, if our swords 

Could throu-h the thickest ranks this sorceress reach 

The hopes of France were blasted. I have strove 

In many a field, j-et never to a foe 

Stoop'd my proud crest: nor difficult to meet 

This wizard j,m-l, for, from the battlements. 

Her have I mark'd the foremost in attack. 

Playing right valiantly the soldier's part; ' 

Yet shall not all her witcheries avail 

To blunt my good sword's edge." 

Thus communed they, 
And through the host the gladdening tidings ran, 
That they should seek the Toumelles. Then their hearts 
Gathered new strength, placing on those strong walls 

Dependence; empty hope ! nor the strong wall, 

Nor the deep moat can save, if fear within 

Palsy the soldier's ai-m. 

Them issuing forth. 

As from the river's banks they past along. 

The Maid beheld ! " Lo ! Com-ade !" she exclaim'd, 

'•^The Ibes advance to meet us — look ! they lower 

The bridge— and now they rush upon the troops: 

A gallant onset ! Dost thou mark that man 

Who all the day Las by our side endur'd 

The hottest conflict ? I did then behold 

His force, and wonder: now his deeds of death 

Make all the actions of the former fight 

Seem as of no account : know'st thou the man P 

There is not one amid the host of France, 

Of fairer promise." 

" He," the chief replied, 

" Wretched and prodigal of life, achieves 

The exploits of despaii-: a gallant youth 

Widowed like me of hope, and but for whom, 

I had been seen among mankind no more. 

Maiden ! with me thy comrade in the war. 

His arm is vowed to Heaven ! Lo ! where he stands 

Bearmg the battle's brunt in unmoved strength, 

Fn-m as the mountain round whose misty head. 

The unharming tempest breaks !" 

- , . Nor paus'd they now 

In laiiher converse, to the perilous fray 
Speeding, not unobserved; them Salisbury saw 
And caU'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest knights 


And vow'd with them agamst the Virgin's life, 

Bent their fierce coui'se. She by that unknown mar. 

Now urged the war, when on her phimed helm 

The hostile falchion fell. On high she lifts 

Her haUoAved sword, the tenant of the tomb. 

And drench'd it in his bosom. On the ii-ont 

Of one, his comrade, fell the battle-axe 

Of him, the dark-brow'd chief; the ponderous blow 

Shattered his brain. With Talbot's giant force 

The daring herald urged unequal fight; 

For like some oak that fii-m with deep-fix'd roots 

]\Iocks at the storm, the undaunted earl endm-'d 

His rude assault. Warding with wary eye 

The angry sword, the Prank around his foe 

Wheels rapid, flashing his keen weapon fast; 

Now as he marks the earl's descending stroke 

Iiending, anon more fierce in swift attack. 

Ill-fated man ! one deed of glory more 

Shall with the short-lived lightning's splendour grace 

This thy death-day; for slaughter even now 

Stands o'er the loom of life, and lifts his sword. 

Upon her shield the martial maiden bore 
An English warrior's blow, and in Ids side 
Pierced him: that instant Salisbury speeds his sword 
That glancing fi'om her helm fell on the folds 
Tliat arm'd her neck, and making there its way, 
Stain'd with her blood its edge. The herald saw. 
He saw her red blood gushing from the wound. 
And turn'd from Talbot heedless of himself. 
And lifting up his falchion, all his force 
Concenter 'd. On the breast of Salisbury 
It fell, and pierced his mail, and through the plato 
Beneath drove fierce, and in his heai-t's-blood plunged. 
Lo ! as he struck the strength of Talbot came : 
Full on his treacherous helm he smote: it burst. 
And the stem earl against his fenceless head 
Drives with strong ai'm the murderous sword. She saw, 
Nor could the Maiden save her Theodore. 

Conrade beheld, and from his vanquish'd foe 
Strode terrible in vengeance. Front to front 
They stood, and each for the death-blow prepar'd 
His angry might. At once their weapons fell. 


The Frank's huge battle-axe, and the keen sword 
')f Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow, 
Slink senseless; by his followers from the field 
Conveyed with fearful speed: nor did his stroke 
Fall vainly on the Frenchman's crested helm, 
Though weak to wound, for from his eyes the fii'e 
Sparkled, and back recoiling with the blow, 
He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell. 

But now their troops all captainless confus'd, 
Fear seized the English. Not with more dismay, 
When over wild Cafiraria's wooded hills, 
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd 
Fly the death-boding soimd. The forts they seek, 
Now reckless wliich, so from that battle's rage 
A present refuge. On their flying ranks 
The victors press, and mark theii* com'se with blood. 

But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds, 
For now the westering sun with many a hue 
Streak'd the gay cloud!s. 

" Dimois !" the Maiden cried, 
" Form we around yon stronger pile the siege. 
There for the night encamping." So she said. 
I.'he chief to Orleans for theu* needful food. 
And enginery to batter that huge pile, 
Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Touxnelles led 
The host beleaguering. There they pitch their tevis. 
And plant then* engines for the morrow's wiU", 
Then to their meal, and o'er the cheerful bowi, 
Recomit the tale of danger; soon to rest 
Bfttiiking them, for now the night drew co;. 

92 JOAN OF AliC. 

®I]^ iig&tl] §0at 

rrausactions of the niglit. Att ad: of the Tourncllos. The jirrlso:: 
retreat to the tower on the bridge. Their total defeat tlici-e. 

Now was tlie noon of niglit; and all was still, 
Save where tlie sentinel paced on his rounds 
Humming a broken song. Along the camp 
High flames the frequent fire. The warrior Franks, 
On the hard earth extended, rest their limbs 
Fatigued; theii" spears lay by them, and the shield 
Pillowed the helmed head: secure they slept. 
And busy fancy in her di'eam renewed 
The fight of 3'esterday. 

But not to Joan, 
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid. 
Soother of sorrows, Sleep ! no more her pulse, 
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast, 
Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasped hands 
And fixed eye she sat; the while around 
The spectres of the days departed rose, 
A melancholy train ! upon the gale 
The raven's croak was heai'd; she started up, 
And passing through the camp with hasty step 
Strode to the field of blood. 

The night was calm ; 
Fair as was ever on Chaldea's plain 
When the pale moon-beams o'er the silvery scene 
Shone cloudless, whilst the watchful shepherd's eye 
Survey'd the host of heaven, and mark'd tliem rise 
Successive, and successively decay; 
Lost in the stream of light, as lesser sprmga 
Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall 
Cast a deep shadow, and her faltering feet 
vStumbled o'er broken arms and cai'casses ; 
And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan 
Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death. 
She reach'd the spot where Theodore had fallen 

JOAN OF ARC. . 93 

Before fort Loudon's gate; but vainly there 
Sought she the j'outh, on every clay-cold face 
Gazing with buch a look, as though she fear'd 
The thing she sought. Amazement seiz'd the Maid, 
For there, the victim of his vengeful arm. 
Known by the buckler's blazon'd heralcby, 
Salisbury lay dead. So us the Virgin stood 
Gazing around the plain, she marked a man 
Pass slowly on, as burthcned. Him to aid 
She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed 
O'ertaking, thus bespake: "Stranger! this weight 
Impedes thy progress. Dost thou bear away 
Some slaughter'd fi-iend ? or lives the suiferer 
With many a sore wound gash'd ? oh ! if he lives 
I will, with earnest prayer, petition heaven 
To shed its healing on him !" 

So she said, 
And as she spake sti'etched forth her careful handa 
To ease the burthen. " Warrior !" he replied, 
" Thanks for this proffered succour : but this man 
Lives not, and I, with unassisted arm, 
C!an bear him to the sepulchre. Farewell ! 
The night is far advanced; thou to the camp 
Return: it fits not darkling thus to stray." 

" Conrade !" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she knew 
His voice: — with that she fell upon his neck 
And cried, " my Theodore ! but wherefore thus 
Through the dead midnight do'st thou bear his corse ?" 

" Peace, Maiden !" Conrade cried, " collect thy soul ! 
He is but gone before thee to that world 
Whither thou soon must follow ! in the morn. 
Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went, 
He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear 
' Lo, Conrade, where she moves — beloved Maid ! 
Devoted for the realm of France she goes 
Abandoning for this the joys of life, 
Yea, life itself ! yet on my heart her words 
Vibrate. If she must perish in the war, 
I will not live to bear the di-eadful thought^ 
Haply my ai-m had saved her. I shall go 
Her unknown guardian. Conrade, if I fall, 
And trust me, I have little love of life. 

94 . JOAN OP AEa 

Bear me id secret from the gory field, 
Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye 
A mangled corse. She must not know my fato. 
Do this last act of friendship — in the flood 
Whelm me: so shall she think of Theodore 
Unanguish'd.' Maiden, I did vow Avith him 
That I would dare the battle by thy side. 
And shield thee in the war. Thee of his death 
I hoped imknowmg." 

As the warrior spake. 
He on the earth the clay-cold carcass laid. 
With fixed eye the wretched Maiden gazed 
The life-left tenement: his batter'd arms 
Were with the night-dews damp ; his brown hair climg 
Gore-clotted in the wound, and one loose lock 
Played o'er his cheek's black paleness. " Gallant youth !" 
She cried, " I would to God the hour were come 
When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss ! 
No, Theodore ! the sport of winds and waves. 
Thy body sliall not roll adown the stream, 
The sea-wolfs banquet. Conrade, bear with mo 
The corse to Orleans, there in hallowed gi'ound 
To rest; the priest shall say the sacred prayer. 
And hymn the requiem to his parted soul. 
So shall not Elinor in bitterness 
Lament that no dear friend to her dead child 
Paid the last office." 

From the earth they lift 
The mournful burden, and along the plain 
Pass with slow footsteps to the city gate. 
Tlie obedient sentinel, at Conrade's voice, 
Admits the midnight travellers; on they pass. 
Till in the neighbouring abbey's porch an-ived. 
They rest the lifeless load. 

Loud rings the bell; 
The awakened porter turns the heavy door. 
To him the Virgin: " Father, from the slain 
On yonder reeking field a dear-loved friend 
I bring to holy sepulture: chant ye 
The requiem to his soul: to-morrow eve 
Will I return, and in the narrow house 
Behold him laid to rest." The father knew 
The mission'd Maid, and humbly bow'd assent. 


Now from tlie cltj% o'er the shadowy plain, 

Backward they bend their way. From silent thoughts 

The Maid, awakening, cried : " There was a time, 

Wlien thinking on my closing hour of life. 

Though with resolved mind, some natural feara 

Shook the weak frame; now that, the happy hour, 

\Vlien my emancipated soul shall burst 

The cumbrous fetters of mortality. 

Wishful I contemplate. Conrade ! my friend. 

My wounded heart would feel another pang, 

Shouldst thou forsake me !" 

" Joan !" the chief replied, 
" Along the weary pilgrimage of life 
Together will we journey, and beguile 
The dreary road, telling with what gay hopes 
We in the morning eyed the pleasant fields 
Vision'd before ; then wish that we had reach'd 
The bower of rest !" 

Thus communing, they gain'd 
The camp, yet hush'd in sleep; there separating. 
Each in the post allotted, restless waits 
The day-break. 

Morning came : dim through the shade 
The first rays glimmer; soon the brightcnmg clouds 
Drink the rich beam, and o'er the landscape spread 
The de^^'y light. The soldiers from the earth 
Leap up invigorate, and each his food 
Receives, impatient to renew the war. 
Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points, 
" Soldiers of France ! your English foes are there ;" 
As Avhen a band of hmiters, round the den 
Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate 
In hope of conquest and the future feast; 
When on the hospitable board their spoil 
Shall smoke, and they, as the rich bowl goes romid, 
Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase; 
They with their shouts of exultation, make 
The forest ring; so elevate of heart, 
With such loud clamom-s for the fierce assault 
The French prepare; nor, guarding now the lists. 
Durst the clisheartened English man to man 
Meet the close conflict. From the barbican, 
Or from the embattled wall they their yew bows 


Bent forceful, and their de.itli -fraught enginery 
Discharged; nor did the Gallic archers cease. 
With well-directed shafts, their loftier fues 
To assail: behind the guardian pavais fenced. 
They at the battlements their arrows aini'd, 
Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the baylc, 
The bayle now levell'd by victorious France, 
Pass'd the bold troops with all their mangonels; 
Or tortoises,''*'' beneath whose roofing safe, 
They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers 
Make fit foundation, or their pctraries, 
War-well's, and beugles, and tiiat murderous slmg, 
The matal'unda, whence the ponderous stone 
Fled fierce, and made one wound of whom it struck 
Shattering the frame, so that no pious liand 
Gathering his mangled limbs, might him convej 
To where his lathers slept :^^ a dreadful train 
Prepared by Salisbury over the sieged town 
To hurl his ruin ; but that dreadful train 
Must hmd their ruin on the invaders' heads. 
Such retribution righteous Heaven decreed. 

Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort 
Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief, 
A gallant man, sped on from place to place, 
Cheering the brave; or if the archer's hand, 
Ealsied with fear, shot wide the ill-aim'd shaft. 
Threatening the coward who betrayed himself, 
He drove him fi'om the ramparts. In his hand 
The chief a cross-bow held : an engine dread 
Of such wide- wasting fury, that of yore 
The assembled fathers of the Christian chin-ch 
Pronounced that man accurs'd whose impious hand 
Should point the murderous weapon. Such decree? 
Befits the men of God to promulgate, 
Ar.d with a warning voice, though haply vain, 
To cry aloud and spare not, woe to them 
Whose hands are full of blood ! 

An English king. 
The lion-hearted Richard, their decree 
First broke, and heavenly retribution doom'd 
His fall by the keen quarrel; since that day 
Frequent in fields of battle, and from far 
To manjr a good knight, bearing his death wound 


From hands unknown. With such an Instrument, 
Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye 
Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance 
Darts not the hawk when from the featlier'd tribe 
He marks his victim. 

On a Frank he fix'd 
His gaze, who, kneeling by the trebuchet, 
Charged its long sling with death. Him Glacidas 
Secure behind the battlements, beheld, 
And stnmg his bow; then, bendmg on one knee, 
He in the groove the featlier'd quarrel placed, 
And levelling with firm eye, the death-wound marlc'd. 
The bow-string twang'd, on its swift way the dart 
Whizzed fierce, and struck, there where the helmet's cla ■;,!; 
Defend the neck; a weak protection now; 
For through the tube that the pure air inhales 
Pierced the Iceen shaft; blood down the unwonted way 
Gush'd to the lungs : prone fell the dying man 
Grasping, convuls'cl, the aarth: a hollow groan 
In his throat struggled, and the dews of death 
Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth 
He had passed peaceful, and had known what joys 
Domestic love bestows, the father once 
Oi' two fair infants; in the city hemm'd 
During the hard siege; he had seen their cheeks 
Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries 
For bread ! his wife, a broken-hearted one. 
Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes 
With hunger pined, and followed; he survived, 
A miserable man, and heard the shouts 
Of jo}' in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd. 
As o'er the corse of his last little one 
He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe 
Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour 
Grief else had soon brought on. 

The English chief, 
Pointing again his arbalist, let loose 
The string; the quarrel, di'iven by that strong blow. 
True to its aim, lied fatal: one it struck 
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd 
Deep in his liver ; blood and mingled gall 
Flow'd from the wound; and writhmg with keen pangs^ 
Headlong he fell; he for the wintry hour 
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale: 


A man in his small circle well-teloved. 
None better knew with prudent hand to guide 
The vine's young tendi-ils, or at vintage time 
To press the full-swoln clusters; he, heart-gla^ 
Taught his young boys the little all he knew. 
Enough for happiness. The English host 
Laid waste his lertile fields : he, to the war. 
By want compell'd, adventui-'d, in his gore 
Now weltermg. 

Nor the Gallic host remit 
Their eager efFol'ts; some, with watery fence. 
Beneath the tortoise roof d, Avith engines apt 
Drain painful; part, laden with wood, throw there 
Theii' buoyant burdens, labom'uig so to gain 
Firm footing: some the mangonels supply, 
Or charging with huge stones the murderous slings 
Or petraiy, or in the espringal 
Fix the brass-winged arrows. Hoarse around 
Rose the confused din of multitudes. 
Feai'less along the ramparts Gargrave moved, 
Cheering the English troops. The bow he bore; 
The quiver rattled as he moved along. 
He knew aright to aim the feathert-d shafts, 
Well skill'd to pierce the mottled roebuck's side, 
O'crtaken in his flight. Him passing on, 
From some huge martinet, a ponderous stone 
Crush'd: on his breast-plate failing, the vast force, 
Shatter'd the bone, and with his mangled lungs 
The fragments mingled. On the sunny brow 
Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home; 
A pleasant dwelling, v/hence the ample ken 
Gazed o'er subjected distance, and siu-veyed 
Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety ! 
The traveller knew its hospitable towers. 
For open were the gates, and blazed for all 
The friendly fu-e. By glory lured, the youth 
Went forth; and he had bathed his falchion's edge 
In many a Frenchman's gore; now crush'd beneath 
The ponderous fragment's force, his mangled limbs 
Lie quivering. 

Lo ! towards the levelled moat, 
A moving tower^^ the men of Orleans wheel, 
Four stages elevate. Above was hung, 
EqnaUiiig the walls, a bridge; in the lower stage 


The ponderous battering-ram: a troop, within, 

Of archers, through the opening, shot their shafts. 

In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepar'd 

To mount the rampart; for he loath'd the chase. 

And loved to see the dappled foresters 

Browse fearless on their lair, with friendly eye. 

And happy in beholding happmess. 

Not meditating death: the bowman's art. 

Therefore, he little knew, nor was he wont 

To aim the arrow at the distant foe. 

But uprear in close conflict, front to front. 

His death-red battle-axe, and break the shield, 

Fu-st in the war of men. There, too, the Maid 

Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield 

Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower. 

Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe 

Showered there their javelins, aim'd tlieii- engines there, 

And from the arbalist the fii-e-tipt dart^** 

Shot lightning through the sky. In vain it flamed. 

For well with many a recking hide secured, 

Pass'd on the di-eadful pile, and now it reached 

The waU. Below, with forceful impulse diiven, 

The iron-horned engine swings its stroke, 

Then back recoils, whilst they \vithm, who guide. 

In backward step collecting all tlieii' strength, 

Anon the massy beam, witli stronger arm. 

Drive full and fierce; so rolls the swelling sea 

Its curly bQlows to the iinmoved foot 

Of some liuge promontory, whose broad base 

Breaks the rough wave; the shiver'd sm-ge roUs bacl^ 

TiU, by the coming billow borne, it bursts 

Again, and foams with ceaseless violence. 

Tlie wanderer, on the sunny cliff outstretch'd. 

Harks to the roaring sui-ges, as they rock 

His weary senses to forgetfuhiess. 

But nearer danger tlireats the invaders now. 
For on the rampai'ts, lowered from above. 
The bridge reclines. An universal shout 
Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant Franka 
Clamour their loud rejoicing, whilst the foe 
Lift up the warning voice, and caU aloud 
For speedy succour there, with deafening shout 
Cheering; their comrades. Not with louder din 

100 JO^IN OF AilC. 

The mountain torrent flings precipitate 
Its bulk of waters, though, amid the fall. 
Shuttered, and dasliing silvery from the rock. 

Lo ! on the bridge he stands, the undaunted man, 
Conrade ! the gathered foes along the wall 
Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes, 
Crestmg with armed men the battlements. 
He, undismaj'ed, though on that perilous height- 
Stood firm, and luud'd his javelin; the keen point 
Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm 
Join'd the broad breast: a wound that skili'ul care 
Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now 
For farther service, the unpitjdng thi'ong 
Of his tumultuous comrades fi'om the wall 
Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to hurl 
His deadly javelins fast, for well within 
The tovt'er was stored with weapons, to the chief 
Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid 
liest idle from the combat; she, secure, 
Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's U30 
By the willing mind that what it well desu'es 
Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng. 
Though haply erring from theu* destin'd mark, 
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower 
Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the knights bcluw 
Each by his jiavais bulwark'd, thither aimed 
Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless thei'ts; 
So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fast 
As when the monarch of the East goes forth 
From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces 
Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood 
Die in the blameless wai'fare: closed within 
The still- contracting circle, their brute force 
Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there. 
Or by each other's fury lacerate, 
The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance 
Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain, 
linjah or Omrah, for the war of beasts 
Venturous, and learnmg thus the love of blood. 
The shout of terror ruigs along the wall. 
For now the French then" scaling ladders place, 
And bearing high theii' bucklers, to the assault 
Mount fearless: from above the furious troops 


Hurl down sncli weapons as inventive care 

Or frantic rajye supplies: huge stones and beams 

Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height, 

Fall living to their death: some in keen pangs 

And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead 

Gnaws through their members, leap down desperate. 

Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount, 

And by their fellows' late unterrified. 

Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerlcss 

To the English was the fight, though from above 

Easy to crush the assailants : them amidst 

Fast lied the arrows; the large brass-wing'd darts, 

There driven resistless from the espringal. 

Keeping their impulse even in the wound. 

Whirl as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush'd 

l^encath the ponderous fragment that descends 

The heas'ier from its height : some, the long lance, 

Impettious rnshing on its viewless waj', 

Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thmidering roar 

Convulsing air, the soldier's eager shout. 

And terror's wild shriek echo o'er the plain 

In dreadful harmony. 

Meantime the chief, 
"\\1io equall'd on the bridge the rampart's height, 
Av^ith manj^ a well-aim'd javelin dealing death, 
j\Iade through the throng his passage: he advanced 
In wary valour o'er his slaughtered foes, 
On the blood-reeking wall. Him drawing near. 
Two youths, the boldest of the English host, 
Prest on to thrust him from that perilous height; 
At once they rush'd upon him: he, his axe 
Dropping, the dagger drew: one through the throat 
He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round, 
Dash'd down his conu'ade. So, unmoved he stood, 
The sire of Guendolen, that daring man, 
Corineus; grap]iling with his monstrous foe. 
He the brute vastncss held aloft and bore. 
And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd, to the sea, 
Down from the rock's high summit, since that day 
Him, hugest of the giants, chronicling, 
Called Langocmagcg. 

The Maid of Arc 
Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind unfurls 
Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sisrht 


A general shout of acclamation rose, 

And loud, as when the tempest-tossing forest 

Eoars to the roaring wind; then terror seiz'd 

The garrison; and fired anew with hope. 

The fierce assailants to their prize rush on 

Kesistless. Vainly do their English foes 

Hurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins, 

And fire-brands; fearless in the escalade, 

Pinu mount the French, and now upon the wall 

Wage equal battle. 

Burning at the sight 
With indignation, Glacidas beheld 
His troops fly scattered; fast on every side 
The foes up-rushing eager to their spoil; 
The holy standard waving; and the J\Iaid 
Fierce in pursuit. " Speed but this arrow. Heaven !" 
The chief exclaim'd, " and I shall fall content." 
So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose. 
And tix'd the bow-strirg, and against the Maid 
Levelling, let loose: h<ir arm Avas rais'd on high 
To smite a fugitive; hi glanced aside, 
Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus receiv'd 
The chieftain's arrow: through his ribs it pass'd. 
And cleft that vessel, whence the purer blood. 
Through many a branchmg channel, o'er the frame 

" Fool !" the enraged chief exclaim'd, 
" Would she had slain thee ! thou hast lived too long." 
Again he aim'd his arbalist: tlie string 
Struck forceful: swift the en'ing an'ow sped. 
Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court 
Bounded the warrior Vii'gin. Glacidas 
Levelled his bow again; the fated shaft 
Fled true, and difficultly through the mail 
Pierced to her neck, and tinged its point with blood. 
" She bleeds ! She bleeds !" exulting cried the chief; 
" The sorceress bleeds ! Nor all her hellish arts 
Can charm my arrows from their destined course." 
Ill-fated man ! Li vain, with murderous hand 
Placing thy feathered quarrel in its groove, 
Dream'st thou of Joan subdued ! She from her neck 
Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd: 
" This is a favour ! Frenchmen, let us on .' 
Escape they caimot from the hand of God !" 

JOAN OP Ana 103 

But Courade, rolling round his angry eyes. 
Beheld the English chieftain as he aim'd 
Again the bow: with rapid step he strode; 
Nor did not Glacidas the Frank perceive: 
At him he drew the string: the powerless dart 
Fell blunted from his buclder. Fierce he came 
And lifting high his ponderous battle-axe, 
Full on his shoulder di'ove the furious stroke 
Deep-buried in his bosom: prone he fell; 
The cold air rushed upon his heaving heart. 
One whose low lineage gave no second name 
Was Glacidas, a gallant man, and still 
His memory in the records of the foe 

And now disheai'tened at his death 
The vanquish'd English fly towards the gate. 
Seeking the inner court, as yet in hope 
Again to dai-e the siege, and with their friends 
Find present refuge there. Mistaken men ! 
The vanquish'd have no friends ! defeated thus, 
Prest by pursuit, in vain, with eager voice. 
They call their conu'ades in the suppliant tones 
Of pity now, now in the indignant plu'ase 
Of fruitless anger; they indeed witliin 
Fast fi-om the ramparts on the victor troops 
Hurl their keen javehns, — but the gate is barr'd^ 
The huge portcuUis down ! 

Then terror seiz'd 
Theu" hopeless hearts : some, fui'ious in despair. 
Turn on their foes; fear-palsied, some await 
The coming death; some di'op the useless swora 
And cry for mercy. 

Then the Maid of Are 
Had pity on the vanquish'd; and she call'd 
Aloud, and cried unto the host of France, 
And bade them cease from slaughter. They obeyed 
The delegated damsel. Some there were 
Apart that communed murmuring, and of these 
GraviUe address'd her. " Mission'd Maid ! our troops 
Ai'e few in number; and to well secure 
These many prisoners such a force demands. 
As should we spare might shortly make us need 
The mercy we bestow; not mercy then. 
Bather to these our soldiers, cruelty. 


Justice to them, to France, and to our king. 
And that regard wise Nature has in each 
Implanted of self-safetj', all demand 
Their deaths." 

" Foul fall such evil policy !" 
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. " I tell thee, chief, 
God is with us ! but God shall hide his face 
From him who sheds one drop of human blood 
In calm cold-hearted wisdom; him who weighs 
The rigid and the expedient, and resolves. 
Just as the well-pois'd scale shall rise or fall. 
These men shall live — live to be happy, chief, 
And in the latest hour of life, shall bless 
Us who preserved. What is the conqueror's name. 
Compared to this when the death hour shall come P 
To think that we have from the murderous sword 
Rescued one man, and that his heai't-pour'd prayers. 
Already with celestial eloquence, 
Plead for us to the All -just !" 

Severe she spake, 
Then tm-n'd to Conrade. " Thou from these our troops 
Appoint fit escort for the prisoners: 
I need not tell thee, Conrade, they are men, 
Misguided men, led from their Uttle homes. 
The victims of the mighty ! thus subdued 
They are our foes no longer: be they held 
In Orleans. From the war we may not spare 
Thy valour long." 

She said: when Conrade cast 
His eyes ai'ound, and mark'd amid the court 
From man to man where Francis rush'd along, 
Bidding them spare the vanquish'd. Him he hail'cL, 
"The Maid hath bade me choose a leader forth 
To guard the captives; tbou shalt be the man; 
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence. 
Yet not forgetting they are men, our foes 
No longer !" 

Nor meantime the garrison 
Ceas'd from the war; they, in the hour of need. 
Abandoning their comrades to the sword, 
A daring band, resolved to bide the siege 
In desperate valour. Fast against the walls 
The battering-ram drove fierce; the engineiy 
Ply'd at the ramparts fast; the catapults ' 


Drove tliere their dreadful darts; the war-wolfs there 
Hurl'd their huge stones; and, through the kindled shj, 
The engines showered their sheets of liquid fire. 

"Feel ye not, comrades, how the ramparts sh:iko 
Beneath the ponderous ram's iinceasing stroke ?" 
Cried one, a venturous Englishman. " Our I'oes, 
In woman-lilve compassion, have dismissed 
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves. 
And giving us fair hope, in equal field. 
Of better fortune. Sore!}' here annoj-ed. 
And slaughtered by theii* engines from afar. 
We perish. Vainly does the soldier boast 
Undaunted corn-age and the powerful arm, 
If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls, 
j\Iark'd for the hunter's arrows: let us rush 
And meet them in the battle, man to man. 
Either to conquer, or, at least, to die 
A soldier's death." 

" Nay, nay — not so," replied 
One of less daring valour. " Though they point 
Their engines here, our archers, not in vain. 
Speed their death-doing shafts. Let the strong walla 
Eirst by the foe be won; 'twill then be time 
To m.eet them in the battle man to man, 
^Vhen these shall fail us." 

Scarcely had he spoke 
When full upon liis breast a ponderous stone 
Fell, fierce impell'd, and drove him to the earth, 
All shattered. Horror the spectators seiz'd, 
For as the dreadful weapon shivered him. 
His blood besprinkleci round, and they beheld 
His mangled lungs lie quivenng! 

" Such tb.e fate 
Of those who trust them to their walls' defence," 
Again exclaimed the soldier: " Thus they fall. 
Betrayed by their own fears. Courage alone 
Can save us." 

Nor to draw them from tlie foii 
Now needed eloquence; with one accord 
They bade him lead to battle. Forth they rush'd 
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain, 
Swoln by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls 
His rapid waters, when the gathered stonn, 

106 JOAif OF ARC. 

On the black hills of Cambria bursting, swelb 
The tide of desolation. 

Then the Maid 
Spake to the son of Orleans, " Let our troops 
Tall back, so shall the English m pursuit 
Leave this strong fortress, thus au easy prey." 
Time was not for long counsel. From the court. 
Obedient to Dunois, a band of Franks 
Eetreat, as at the irruption of their foes 
Disheartened ; they, with shouts and loud uproar, 
Rush to then* fancied conquest: Joan, the while. 
Placing a small, but gallant gai-rison, 
Bade them secure the gates: then forth she nish'd. 
With such fierce onset charging on their rear, 
That terror smote the English, and they wish'd 
Again that they might hide them in their walls 
Eashly abandoned; for now wheeling round. 
The son of Orleans fought. AH captainless, 
lU-mai'shaU'd, ill-du"ectsd, in vain rage. 
They waste their fm-ious eiforts, falling fast 
Before the Maid's good falchion and the sword 
Of Conrade: loud was heard the mingled sound 
Of arms and men; the earth, that trampled late 
By multitudes, gave to the passing wind 
Its dusty clouds, now reek'd with their hot gore 

High on the fort's far summit Talbot mark'd 
The fight, and caU'd impatient for his arms. 
Eager to rush to war; and scarce withheld: 
For now, disheartened and discomfited. 
The troops fled feaiful. 

On the bridge there stood 
A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire. 
The traveller sometimes lingered on his way, 
JMarking the playful tenants of the stream. 
Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-wai'd tide. 
This had the invaders won in hai'd assault. 
Ere she the delegate of heaven, came forth 
And made them fear who never fear'd before. 
Hither the English troops with hasty steps 
Eetk'd, yet not forgetful of defence. 
But waging still the war: the gai'rison 
Them thus retreating saw, and open thi-ew ^ 
Their guarded gates; and on the Gallic hoab ^ 


Covering their vanquish'd fellows, poiir'd tlieli- shafts 
Check'd in pursuit, they stopt. Then Graville cried, — 
" 111, maiden, hast thou done ! those valiant troops 
Thy womanish pity has dismissed, with us 
Conjoin'd might press upon the vanquish'd foes, 
Though aided thus, and plant the lilied flag 
Victorious on yon tower." 

" Dark-minded man !" 
The Maid of Orleans answered, " to act weU 
Brings with itself an ample recompence. 
I have not rear'd the orillamme^^ of death. 
The butcher flag ! the baimer of the Lord 
Is this; and come what will, me it behoves, 
Mindiul of that good power who delegates. 
To spare the fallen foe: that gracious God 
Sends me the mmister of mercy forth, 
Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France ; 
To England friendly as to all the world, 
Foe only to the great blood-guilty ones, 
The masters and the nrurderers of mankind." 

She said, and suddenly threw off her helm; 
Her breast heaved high — her cheek grew red — her eyes 
Flash'd forth a wilder lustre. " Thou dost deem 
That T have illy spar'd so large a band, 
Disablmg from pursuit our weakened troops — 
God is with us !" she cried — " God is with us ! 
Our champion manifest !" 

Even as she spake, 
The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes, 
Sunk with a mighty crash. 

Seized on the^" French — an universal cry 
Of terror burst from them. Crush'd in the ftxU, 
Or by then' armour whelni'd beneath the tide. 
The sufferers sunk, or vainly plied their arms. 
Caught by some smkmg wretch, who grasp'd them fast 
And dragg'd them down to death: shrieking they sunk; 
Huge fragments frequent dash'd with thundering roar, 
Amid the foanung cm-rent. From the fort 
Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and cm-sed 
The more than mortal Virgm; whilst the towers 
Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar. 
And all who heaixl, trembled, and cross'd their breasts^ 


And as they hastened to the city walls, 
Told fearfully their beads. 

'Twas now the hoti.. 
When o'er the plain the pensive hues of eve 
Shed their meek radiance; when the lowing herd, 
Slow as they sialic to shelter, draw behind 
The lengthening sliades; and seeking his high nest 
As heavily he Haps the dewy air. 
The hoarse rook pours his not unpleasant note. 
" Now then, Dimois, for Orleans !" cried the Maia, 
" And give we to the flames these monuments 
Of sorrow and disgrace. The ascending flames 
Shall to the dwellers of yon rescued town 
Blaze with a joyful splendour, while the foe 
Behold and tremble." 

As she spake, they rush'd 
To fire the forts; they shower their wild fire there. 
And high amid the gloom the ascending flames 
])laze up; then joyful of their finish 'd toil. 
The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight 
As the calm'd ocean, when its gentle waves 
Heave slow and silent, waiting tranquilly 
The sliattercd fragments of the jridjiiclit wresTc, 

JOAif OF ARC. 109 

f |e iintfr goMu 

Transactions of the night. Blurmurs, council and retreat of the 
English. Advance of Burgundy to their assistance prevented. Uurial 
of the dead. Tiicir funeral oration iJiunounced by the jiaid. 

Far through the shiidowy sky the ;iscending flames 

Stream'd their tierce torrents, by the gales oi" night 

Now curl'd, now flashing their long lightnings up, 

That made the stars seem pale ; less frequent now. 

Through the red volumes the brief splendour shot. 

And blacker waves roU'd o'er the darkened heaven. 

Dismay'd amid the iorts that yet remam'd, 

The invaders saw, and clamoured tor retreat, 

Deeming that aided by invisible powers 

The Maid went forth to conquer. Not a sound 

Moved on the an-, but fllled them with vague dread 

Of unseen dangers ; if the blast arose 

Sudden, tkrough every fibre a deep fear 

Crept shivermg, and to their- expecting minds 

Silence itself was dreadful. One there was. 

Who, learning wisdom in the hour of ill, 

Fxclaimed, " I marvel not, that the Most High 

Hath hid his face from England ! wherefore thus 

Quitting the comibrts of domestic lite. 

Swarm we to desolate this goodly land, 

Making the drenched earth rank with human blood, 

Scatter pollution on the wmds of heaven ? 

Oh ! that the sepulchre had closed its jaws 

On that foul priest, ■" that bad blood-guilty mar., 

Who, trembling for the church's Hi-got wealth. 

Bade Hemy look on France, ere he had drawn 

The desolating sword, and sent him I'orth 

To slaughtoi- ! Sure lie spake the will of God, 

That holy hermit,'^'- who in his career 

Of conquest met the king and bade him cease 

The work of death, before the wrath divine 

Fell heavy on his head; and soon it fell, 


And sunk him to the grave; and soon that wrath 
On us, alike in sin, alike shall fall: 
For thousands and ten thousands, by the sword 
Cut ofF, and sent before the eternal Judge, 
With all their unrcpented crimes upon them, 
Cry out for vengeance ! for the widow's groan. 
Though here she gi'oan unpitied or unheard, 
Is heard in Heaven against us ! o'er this land. 
For hills of human slain, unsepulchred. 
Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun ! 
The wrath of God is on us — God has call'd 
This Virgin forth , and gone before her path — 
Our brethren,. vainly valiant, fall beneath them. 
Clogging with gore tlieir weapons, or in the Hood, 
Whelm'd like the Egyptian tyrant's impious hoiit. 
Mangled and swoln, tlieir blackened carcasses 
Toss on the tossing billows ! We remain, 
For yet oui- rulers will pursue the war. 
We still remain to perish by the sword. 
Soon to appear before the throne of God; 
Lost, guilty wretches, hireling murderers, 
Uninjar'd, unprovok'd, who dared to risk 
The life his goodness gave us, on the chance 
Of war, and in obedience to our chiefs. 
Durst disobey our God." 

Then ten-or seized 
The troops and late repentance : and they thought 
The spirits of the mothers and their babes 
Famish'd at Roan, sat on the clouds of night. 
Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy 
The horn" of vengeance. 

Nor the English chiefs 
Heard their loud murmui's heedless: counselling, 
Th !y met despondent. Suffolk, now theu* chief, 
Since conquered by the arm of Theodore, 
Fell Salisbury, thus began. 

" It were now vain 
Lightly of this our more than mortal foe. 
To speak contemptuous. She has vanquish'd us, 
Aided by Hell's leagued powers, nor aught avails 
Man unassisted 'gainst the powers of Hell, 
To dare the conflict : were it best remain 
Waiting the doubtful aid of Burgundy, 
Doubtful and still delayed j or from this scene. 


Scene of our shame, retreating as we may, 
Yet struggle to preserve the guarded towns 
Of Orleannois P" 

He ceas'd, and with a sigh 
Struggling with pride that heav'd his gloomy breast, 
Talbot replied—" Our council little boots; 
For by the numbers now made bold in fear, 
The soldiers will not fight, they will not heed 
Our vain resolves, heart-withered by the spells 
Of this accursed sorceress soon will come 
The expected host fi-om England: even now 
Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep 
That bears my son: young Talbot comes— he comes 
To fmd his sii'e disgraced ! but soon mine ai-m, 
By vengeance nei-ved, and shame of such defeat, 
Shall, from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch. 
Regain its ancient glory. Near the coast 
Best is it to retreat, and there expect 
The coming succour." 

Thus the warrior spake. 
Joy ran through all the troops, as though retreat 
Were safety. Silently in ordered ranks 
They issue forth, favoured by the deep clouds 
That mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing hcai'ts 
FearfrJ they speeded on: some, thinking sad 
Of distant England, and, now wise too late. 
Cursing in bitterness that evil horn- 
That led them fi-cm her shores : some in faint hope, 
Callmg to mmd the comforts of their home. 
Talbot went musing on his blasted fame. 
Sullen and stem, and feeding on dark thoughts. 
And meditating vengeance. 

In the walls 
Of Orleans, though her habitants with joy 
Humbly acknowledged the high aid of heaven. 
Of many a heav^ ill and bitter loss 
Mindful, such mingled sentiments they felt. 
As one from shipwi-eck saved, the fu-st warm glow 
Of transport past, who contemplates himself, 
Presei-ved alone, a solitary wretch. 
Possessed of life, indeed, but reft of all 
That makes man love to live. The chieftains shared 
The social bowl, glad of the town reheved. 
And communine of that miraculous Maid, 


\Vlio came, the saviour of the reahn of France, 
When vanquish'd in the frequent field of shame, 
Her bravest warriors trembled. 

Joan the while 
Foodless and silent to the convent pass'd: 
Conrade with her, and Isabel; both mute. 
Yet i^azing on her oft with eloquent eye. 
Looking the consolation that they fcar'd 
To give a voice to. Now they reach 'd the dome: 
The glaring torches o'er the house of death 
Stream'd a sad splendour. Flowers and funeral herLt 
Eedeck'd the bier of Theodore: the rue, 
The dark green rosemaiy, and the violet, 
That pluck'd Uke him \yilhered in its fii-st bloom 
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief 
Pom-'d copious; Conrade wept: the Maid alone 
Was tearless, for she stood unheedinglj'. 
Gazing the vision'd serene of her last hour, 
Absorb'd in contemplation ; from her eye 
Intelligence was absent; nor she seem'd 
To hear, though listening to the dirge of death. 
Laid in his last home nov/ was Theodore, 
And now up(jn the coffin tlu'own, the earth 
Fell heavj^: the Maid started— for the sound 
Smote on her heart; her eye one lightning glance 
Shot wild, and shuddering, upon Isabel 
She hung, her pale lips trembling, and her cheek 
As wan as though untenanted by life. 

Tlien in the priest arose the earnest hope. 
That weary of the world and sick with woe. 
The Maid might dwell with them a vestal vowed, 
" Ah, damsel !" slow he spake, and cross'd his breast. 
" Ah, damsel ! favoured as thou art of Heaven, 
Let not thy soul beneath its sorrow sink 
Despondent; Heaven by sorrow disciplines 
The froward heart, and chastens whom it loves; 
Therefore, companion of thy way of life, 
Afiiiction thee shall wean from this vain world. 
Where happiness provokes the traveller's chase. 
And like the midnight meteor of the marsh. 
Allures his long and perilous pursuit. 
Then leaves him dark and comfortless. Maid i 
Fix thou thine eyes upon that heavenly duwv^ 


Bej'ond t{''e night of life ! tliy race is run, 

Tlioii hast delivered Orleans : now perfect 

Thyself; accomplish all, and be the child 

Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groan 

Of woe is never heard ; these hallowed roofs 

Re-echo only to the pealing quire, 

The T-anted mass, and Virgin's holy hymn. 

Celestial somids ! secluded here, the soul 

Ileceives a foretaste of her joys to come ! 

This is the abode of piety and peace : 

Oh ! be their inmate. Maiden ! come to rest, 

Die to the world, and live espous'd to Hcavcu !" 

Then Conrade answered, " Father ! Heavon has dcoiii'd 
This Maid to active vu-tue." 

"Active!" cried 
The astonish'd priest; "thou dost not know the toils 
This holy warfare asks; thou dost not know 
How powerful the attacks that Satan makes 
15y sinful nature aided ! dost thou deem 
It is an easy task from the fond breast 
To root affection out ? to burst the cords 
That grapple to society the heai't 
Of social man ? to rouse the unwilling spirit, 
Tliat, rebel to devotion, faintly pours 
The cold lip-worshij) of the wearjdng prayer ? 
To fear anl tremble at him, yet to love 
A God 0^" Terrors P Mnid, beloved of heaven ! 
Come to this sacred trial ! share with us 
The day of penance and the night of prayer ! 
Humble thyseK'! feel thine own worthlessnessj, 
A reptile worm ! before thy birth condemn'd 
To all the horrors of thy ]\Iaker's wrath, 
The lot of fallen mankind ! oh hither comtil 
Humble thyself in ashes, so thy name 
Shall live amid the blessed host of saints, 
And urdiorn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine 
Pour forth theii" pious ofierings." 

" Hear me, priest l" 
Exclaim'd the awakened Maid ; " amid these tombs, 
Cold as their clayey tenants, know, my heart 
Must never grow to stone ! chill thou thyself. 
And break thy midnight rest, and tell thy bcacT^, 
And labour tlu'ough thy still repeated prayer i 

] J t JCAN 05' ARC. 

Fear tiiOu thy God of Terrors; spurn the gifts 
He gave, and sepulchre thyself alive ! 
But far more valued is the vine that bends 
Beneath its swelling clusters, than the dark 
And joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall 
Wreathhig its baiTen arms. For me I know 
Mine own worth, priest! that I have well perform 'J 
My duty, and untrembling shall appear 
Before the just tribunal of that God, 
Whom grateful Love has taught me to adore !" 

Severe she spake, for sorrow in her heart 
Had wrought unwonted stenmess. From the dome 
They past in silence; when, with hasty steps. 
Sent by the assembled chieftains, one they met 
Seeking the mission'd Virgin, as alarm'd, 
The herald of ill tiduigs. 

"Holy Maid!" 
He cried, " they ask thy counsel. Burgundy 
Comes in the cause of England, and his troops, 
Scarce tlnree leagues from our walls, a fearful power, 
Eest tented for the night." 

" Say to the chiefs, 
At morn I will be with them," she replied. 
" Meantime their welfare well shall occupy 
My nightly thoughts." 

So saying, on she past, 
Thoughtful and silent. A brief while she mus'd. 
Brief, but sufficing to impel the soul. 
As with a strange and irresistible force. 
To loftiest daring. " Conrade !" she exclaim'd, 
" I pray thee meet me at the eastern gate 
With a swift steed prepared: for I must hence." 

Her voice was calm; nor Conrade tlirough the glooir. 
Saw the faint flush that witness'd on her cheek 
High thoughts conceived. She to her home repair'd. 
And with a light and implumed casquetel 
She helm'd her head; hung from her neck^^ the shield, 
And forth she went. 

Her Conrade by the wall 
Awaited. " May I, Maiden, seek miblamed 
^Vliither this midnight journey ? may I share 
The peril ?" ciied the wai'iior. She rejoiu'd. 

JO AX OF AKC. 115 

"This, Conrade, may not be. Alone I go. 
That impulse of the soul that comes from God 
Hath summon'd me. Of this remain assui'ed, 
If ought of patriot enterprise requhed 
Associate lii'mness, thou shouldst be the man, 
Best — last — and only friend !" 

So up she sprung 
And left hun. He beheld the warden close 
The gate, and listened to her com-ser's tramp. 
Till soon upon his ear the far-oif sound 
Fell faintly, and was lost. 

Swift o'er the vale 
Sped the good courser; eager Ij'' the JMaid 
Gave the loose rein, and now her speed attaiu'd 
The dark encampment. Tlu'ough the sleeping ranlcr- 
Onward she past. The trampUng of the steed 
Or mingled with the soldier's busy dreams, 
Or with vague terrors fiU'd his startled sense, 
Prompting the secret prayer. 

So on she past 
To where in "loftier shade arose the tent 
Of Burgundy : light leaping fi'om her seat 
She entered. 

On the earth the cliieftain slept. 
His mantle scarf around him; armed all, 
Save that his shield hung near him, and his helm: 
And by his side, in warrior readiness. 
The sheathed falchion lay. Profoimd he slept. 
Nor heard the speeding courser's sounding hoof, 
Nor enteriirg footstep. " Burgundy," she cried, 
" What, Burgundy ! awake !" He started up 
And caught the gleam of arms, and to his sword 
Reach'd the quick hand. But soon his upv/ard glanc? 
Thrill'd him, for full upon her face the lamp 
Stream'd its deep glare, and in her solemn look 
Was most mieartlily meaning. Pale she was. 
But m her eye a saintly lustre beam'd. 
And that most calm and holiest confidence 
That guilt knows never. " Biu-gundy, thou seest 
The Maid of Orleans !" 

As she spake, a voice 
Exclaim'd, " Die, sorceress !" and a knight rush'd m 
Whose name by her illustrated yet hves, 
Franquet of Ai'ras. With uplit'ted arm 

lift JOAN OF ARC. 

Furious he came; her buckler broke the blow, 
And forth she flash'd her sword, and with a strokt 
Swift that no eye could ward it, and of strength 
No mail might blunt, smote on his neck, his neck 
Unfenced, for he in haste aroused had cast 
An armet"*"* on; resistless there she smote 
And to the earth prone fell the headless trunk 
Of Franquet. 

Then on Burgundy she fix'd 
Her eye severe. " Go, chief, and thank thy God 
That he \vith lighter judgments visits thee 
Than fell on Sisera, or by Judith's hand 
He wrought upon the Assyrian ! thank thy God 
That when his vengeance smote the ruffian sons 
Of England, equalled though thou wert in guilt. 
Thee he has spared to work by penitence 
And better deeds atonement" 

Thus she spalce, 
Then issued forth, and bounding on her steed 
Sped o'er the plain. Dark on the upland bank 
The hedge-row trees distinct and colourless 
liose o'er the gi'ey horizon, and the Loire 
Form'd in its winding way islands of liglit 
Amid the shadowy vale, when now she reach'd 
The walls of Orleans. 

From the eastern clouds 
The sun came forth, as to the assembled chiefs 
Tire ]\Iaiden past. Her bending thitherwards 
The Bastard met. " New perils threaten us," 
He cried, " new toils await us; Burgundy -" 

" Fear not for Burgundy !" the Maid exclaim'd, 
" Him will the Lord direct. Om* earliest scouts 
Shall tell his homeward march. What of the troc^ 
Of England?" 

" They," the son of Orleans cried, 
" By darkness favour'd, fled: yet not by flight 
Shall England's robber sons escape the arm 
Of retribution. Even now our troops, 
By battle unfatigued, unsatisfied 
With conquest, clamour to pursue the foe." 

The delegated damsel thus replied: 
" CO let them fly, Dunois ! but other toils 

lOAN OF ARC. 117 

Than those of battle, these our hallowed troops 

Await. Look j'onder to that carnaged plain ! 

Behoves us there to delve the general grave. 

Then, chief'taiu, for pursuit, when we have paid 

The rites of burial to our fellow men, 

And liymned our gratitude to that All -just 

Who gave the conquest. Thou, meantime, dispatch 

Tidings to Chinon: bid the king set forth, 

That, crowning him before assembled France, 

In Rheims delivered from the enemy, 

I may accomplish all." 

So said the Maid. 
Then to the gate moved on. The assembled troops 
Beheld their coming chief, and smote their shields, 
Clamouring their admiration; for they thought 
That she would lead them to the instant war. 
She waved her hand, and silence still'd the host. 
Then thus the mission'd Maid, " Fellows in arms! 
We must not speed to joyful victory, 
Whilst our unburied comrades, on j'on plain. 
Allure the carrion bird. Give we this day 
To our dead fi'iends !" 

Nor did she speak in vain; 
For as she spake, the thirst of battle dies 
Tn every breast, such awe and love pervade 
The listening troops. They o'er the corse-strewn plain 
Speed to their sad employment: some dig deep 
The house of death; some bear the lifeless load; 
One little troop search carefully around, 
If haply they might find surviving yet 
Some wounded wretches. As they labour thus. 
They mark far olf the iron-blaze of ai"ms; 
See distant standards waving on the air. 
And hear the clarion's clang. Then spake the ]\Iaid 
To Conrade, and she bade him speed to view 
The coming army; or to meet their march 
With friendly greeting, or if foes they came 
With such array of battle as shoi't space 
Allowed: the warrior sped across the plain. 
And soon beheld the bannered lilies wave. 

Thei' chief was Eichemont: he, when as he heard 
What rites employed the Vu-gin, straightway bade 
His troops assist in burial; they, though gi-ieved 

118 JOAN OF AKC. ' 

At late arrival, and the erpected day 
Of conquest past, yet give their willing aid : 
They dig the general grave, and thither bear 
English or French alike commingled now. 
And heap the mound of death. 

Amid the plain 
There was a little eminence, of old 
Piled o'er some honoured chieftain's narrow house. 
His praise the song had cea5?ed to celebrate, 
And many an unknown age had the long grass 
Waved o'er the nameless mound, though barren nov? 
lleneath the frequent tread of multitudes. 
There, elevate, the martial Maiden stood. 
Her brow unhelmed, and floating on the vdnd 
Her long dark locks. The silent troops around 
Stood thickly throng'd, as o'er the fertile field 
Billows the ripen'd corn. The passing breeze 
liore not a murmur from the numerous host. 
Such deep attention held them. She began. 

" Glory to those who in their country's cause 
Fall in the field of battle ! Citizens, 
I stand not here to mourn these gallant men. 
Our comrades, nor with vain and idle phrase 
Of pit}' and compassion, to console 
The friends who loved them. They, indeed, who fill 
Beneath oppression's banner, merit well 
Our pity; may the God of peace and love 
Be merciful to those blood-guilty men 
Yv^ho came to desolate the realm of France, 
To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves. 
Before a tyrant's footstool ! Give to these. 
And to their wives and orphan little-ones 
That on then* distant father vainly cry 
For bread, give these your pity. Wi-etched men, 
Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven 
By need and himger to the trade of blood; 
Or, if with free and willing mind they came, 
Ivlost wi-etched — for before the eternal throne 
They stand, as hireling murderers arraign 'd. 
But our dead comrades for their freedom fought; 
No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes 
Of promise, to allure them to this fight, 
This holy warfare ! them their parents sent. 


Aad as they raised their streaming eyes to heaven. 

Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword 

Save their grey hairs: these men their wives sent forth, 

Fix'd theii- last kisses on their armed hands. 

And bade them in the battle think they fought 

For them and for their babes. Thus rous'd'to rage 

By every milder feeling, they rush'd forth. 

They fought, they conquer'd. To this high-rear'd mouud 

The men of Orleans shall in after days 

Bring their young boys, and tell them of the deeds 

Our gallant friends achieved, and bid them learn 

Lilie them to love then- country, and like them. 

Should wild oppression pour again its tide 

Of desolation, to step forth and stem 

Feai-less, the furious torrent. Men of France ! 

Mourn not for these our comrades; boldly they 

Fought the good fight, and that eternal One, 

Wlio bade the angels hai-binger his word 

With ' Peace on earth,' rewards them. "We survive. 

Honouring then- memories to avenge their fall 

On England's ruffian hordes; in vain her cluefs 

Madly will drain her wealth, and waste her blood. 

To conquer this vast realm ! for, easier were it 

To hurl the rooted mountain from its base. 

Than force the yoke of slavery upon men 

Determin'd to be fi-ee : yes, — let them rage. 

And drain their countiy's wealth, and waste her blocclj 

And pour their hirehng thousands on our coasts. 

Sublime amid the storm shall France arise. 

And like the rock amid surrounding waves, 

Eepel the rushing ocean — she shall wield 

Tha thunder — she shall blast her despot fasQ.** 

120 JOAN OF AKa 

f h tEntt^ g00L 

The Eng15sh succours arrive. Battle of Patay. The Kinsr arrives 
The rosni concludes with the coronation of Charles at Kheiins. 

Thus to the martyrs in their country's cause 

The Maiden gave their fame ; and when she '^pis'd, 

Such murmur from the multitude arose, 

As when at twilight hour the summer breeze 

]\Ioves o'er the clmy vrde: there was not one 

Who mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend, 

Slain in the fight of freedom; or if chance 

Ivcmcmhrance with a tear suffus'd tlie eye, 

The patriot's joy flash'd through. 

And now the ritei 
Of sepulture perform'd, the hymn to heaven 
They chanted. To the town the Maid return'd, 
Dunois with her, and Eicheniout, and the man, 
Conrade, whose converse most the Yu'gin lov'd. 
They of pursuit, and of the future war 
Sat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice 
Proclaim'd approaching herald. 

" To the Maid-'* 
Exclaim'd the messenger, " and thee, Dunois, 
Son of the chief he loved ! Du Chastel sends 
Greeting. The aged warrior has not spared 
All active efforts to partake your toil, 
And serve his country; and though late arrived, 
He share not in the fame your arms acquire. 
His heart is glad that he is late arrived, 
And France preserved thus early. He were hen 
To join your host, and follow on their flight. 
But Richemout is his foe. To that high lord 
Thus says my master : We, though each to eacli 
Be hostile, are alike the embattled sons 
Of this GUI' common country. Do thou join 
The conquering troops, and prosecute succesej 
I will the while assault what guarded tov/as 


Bedford yet holds in Orleannoig; one dny, 

Pei-haps the constable of France may learn ; 

He wrong'd Du Chastel." 

As the herald spake, 
The crimson current rush'd to Richemont's cheek. 
" Tell to thy master," eager he replied, 
" I am the foe ol' those court parasites 
Who poison the king's ear. Him who shall serve 
Our country in the Held, I hold my friend: 
Such may Du Chastel prove." 

So said the chief. 
And pausing as the herald went his way, 
Gaz'd on the Virgin. " IMaiden ! if aright 
I deem, thou dost not with a friendly eye 
Scan mj' past deeds." 

Then o'er the damsel's cheek 
A faint glow spread. " True, chieftain !" she replied, 
" Report bespeaks thee haughty, of thy power 
Jealous, and to the shedding human blood 

" Maid of Orleans !" he exclaim'd, 
" Should the wolf slaughter thy defenceless ilock. 
Were it a crime if thy more mighty force 
Destroyed the fell destroyer P if thy hand 
Had pierced the ruffian as he bm-st thy door 
Prepar'd for midnight murder, wouldst thou feel 
The weight of blood press heavy on thy soul ? 
I slew the wolves of state, the murderers 
Of thousands. Joan ! when rusted in its sheath 
The sword of justice hung, blamest thou the man 
That lent his weapon for the virtuous deed ?" 

Conrade replied. "Xay, Richemont. it were v/eli 
To pierce the ruffian as he burst thy doors; 
But if he hear the plunder safely thence. 
And thou shouldst meet him on the future day. 
Vengeance must not he thine: there is the law 
To punish ; and if thy impatient hand. 
Unheard and uncondemn'd, should execute 
Death on that man, justice will not allow 
The judge in the accuser !" 

" Thou hast said 
Right wisely, warrior!" cried the constable; 
" But thc]-e are guilty ones above the law, 


Men whose black crimes exceed tlie utmost bound 

Of private guilt; court vermin that buzz round 

And fly-blow the king's ear, and make him waste. 

In this most perilous time, his people's wealth 

And blood: immers'd one while in criminal sloth. 

Heedless though ruin threat the realm they rule; 

And now projecting some mad enterprise. 

To certain slaughter send their wretched troops. 

These are the men that make the king suspect 

His wisest, faithfullest, best counsellors; 

And for themselves and their dependents, seize 

All places, and all profits; and they wrest 

To their own ends the statutes of the land. 

Or safely break them: thus, or indolent, 

Or active, rumous alilce to France. 

Wisely thou sayest, warrior, that the law 

Should strike the guilty; but the voice of justice 

Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries. 

Whom the laws cannot reach the dagger should." 

The Maid replied, " I blame thee not, oh chief! 
If, reasoning to thine own conviction thus. 
Thou didst, well-satisfied, destroy these men 
Above the law : but if a meaner one. 
Self-constituting him the minister 
Of justice to the death of these bad men. 
Had wrought the deed, him would the laws have seized, 
And doom'd a murderer — thee, thy power preserved ! 
And what hast thou exampled P Thou hast taught 
All men to execute what deeds of blood 
Their will or passion sentence: right and wrong 
Confounding thus, and making power of all 
Sole arbiter. Thy acts were criminal; 
Yet, Kichemont, for thou didst them self-approved, 
I may not blame the agent. Trust me, chiei^ 
That when a people sorely are opprest, 
The hour of violence will come too soon. 
And he does wi'ong who hastens it. Pie best 
Performs the patriot's and the good man's part. 
Who, in the ear of rage and faction, breathes 
The healing words of love." 

Thus communed they: 
Meantime, all panic-struck and terrified, 
Ihe English urge their flight; by other thoughts 


Possess'd than when, elute with arrogance. 

They dreamt of conquest, and the crown of France 

At their disposaL Of their hard-fouglit fields, 

01" glory hardly-eam'd, and lost with shame. 

Of friends and brethren slaughter 'd, and the fate 

Threatening themselves, they brooded sadly, now 

Repentant late and vainly. They whom fear 

Erst made obedient to their conquering march, 

At their defeat exultant, wreak what ills 

Their pov/er allow'd. Thus many a league they fled, 

Marking tlieir path with ruin, day by day 

Leaving the weak and wounded destitute 

To the foe's mercy; thinking of their home, 

Thougli to that far-off prospect scarcely hope 

Could raise her sickly eye. Oh then what joy 

Inspir'd anew their bosoms, when, like clouds 

Movuig in shadows down the distant hill. 

They mark'd their coming succours ! in each heart 

Doubt rais'd a busy tumult; soon they knew 

The friendly standard, and a general shout 

Burst from the joyful ranks; yet came no joy 

To Talbot: he, with dai-k and downward brow. 

Mused sternly, till at length arous'd to hope 

Of vengeance, welcoming his warrior son. 

He brake a sullen smile. 

" Son of my age ! 
Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields, 
Thy father bids thee welcome, though disgraced. 
Baffled, and flying from a woman's arm ! 
Yes, by my former glories, from a woman ! 
The scourge of France ! the conqueror of men ! 
Fljnng before a woman ! Son of Talbot, 
Had the winds wafted thee a few days sooner. 
Thou hadst seen me high in honour, and thy nam© 
Alone had scattered armies; yet, my child, 
I bid thee welcome ! rest we here our flight, 
And lift again the sword." 

So spake the chief; 
And well he counsell'd: for not yet the sun 
Had reach'd meridian height, when, o'er the plain 
Of Patay they beheld the troops of France 
Speed in pursuit. Soon as the troops of France 
Beheld the dark battalions of the foe 
Shadowing the distant plain, a general shout 

124- JOAN OF ARC. 

Burst from the expectant host, and on they pro^t. 
Elate of heart and eager for the fight. 
With clamours ominous of victory. 
Thus urging on, one from the adverse host 
Advanced to meet them: they his garb of peace 
Knew, and they stayed them as the herald spake 
His bidding to the chieftains. " Sirs," he cried, 
" I bear defiance to you from the earl, 
William of Suffolk. Here on this fit plain. 
He wills to give j'ou battle, power to power. 
So please you, on the morrow." 

" On the morrow 
We will join battle, then," replied Dimois, 
" And God befriend the right !" then on the herald 
A rolie rich-furred and broidered he bestowed, 
A costly guerdon. Through the army spread 
The unwelcome tidings of delay: possessed 
With agitating hopes they felt the hours 
Pass heavily; but soon the night waned on. 
And the loud trumpets' blare from broken sleep 
Roused them; a second time the thrilling blast 
Bade them be armed, and at the third deep sound 
They ranged them in their ranks. From man to man 
With pious haste hurried the confessor 
To shrive''^ them, lest with miprepared souls 
They to their death might go. Dunois meantime 
Rode through the host; the shield of dignity 
Before him borne, and in his hand he held 
The white wand of command. The open helm 
Disclosed that eye that tempered the strong lines 
Of steady valour, to obedient awe 
Winning the will's assent. To some he spake 
Of late-earned glory; others, new to wai', 
He bade bethink them of the feats achieved 
When Talbot, recreant to his former fame. 
Fled from belcaguer'd Orleans. Was there iriv~ 
Whom he had known in battle ? by the hand 
Him did he take, and bid him on that day 
Sunnnon his wonted courage, and once more 
Support his chief and comrade. Happy he 
Who caught his glance, or from the chieftain's lipa 
Heard his own name ! joy more inspiriting 
Fills not the Persian's soul, when sure he deems 
That Mithra hears propitiously his prayer. 


And o'er the scattered cloud of morning pour3 
A brighter ray responsive. 

Then the host 
Partook due food, this theu* last meal belike 
deceiving with such thoughtful doubts, as mak? 
The soul, impatient of uncertainty, 
Ivush eager to the event; prepared thus 
Upon the grass the soldiers laid themselves, 
Each in his station, waiting there the sound 
Of onset, that in undiminished strength 
Strong, they might meet the battle:''^ silent some. 
Pondering the chances of the coming day. 
Some whiling with a careless gaiety 
The fearful pause of action. Thus the French 
In such array and high in confident hope 
Await the signal; whilst, with other thoughts. 
And ominous awe, once more the invading host 
Prepare them in the field of fight to meet 
The Maid of God. Collected in himself 
Appeared the might of Talbot. Through the ranks 
He stalks, remmds them of their fomier fame, 
Tlieir native land, their homes, the fiiends they loved 
All the rewards of this day's victory. 
But awe had fiU'd the English, and they struck 
Faintlj^ their shields; for they who had beheld 
Tlie hallowed banner with celestial light 
Irradiate, and the missioned Maklen's deeds, 
Felt their hearts sink within them, at the thought 
Of her near vengeance ; and the tale they told 
Roused such a tumult m the new-come troops. 
As fitted them for fear. The aged chief 
Beheld their drooping valour: his stern brow. 
Wrinkled with thought, bewray'd his inward doubts: 
Still he was firm, though all might fly, resolved 
That Talbot should retrieve his old renown. 
And period life with glory. Yet some hope 
Inspu'ed the veteran, as across the plain 
Casting his eye, he marked the embattled strength 
Of thousands ; archers of unequalled skill, 
Brigans, and pikemen, from whose lifted points 
A fearful radiance flashed, and young esquires. 
And high-born warriors, bright in blazoned arms. 
Xor few, nor tameless were the English cliicfd: 
ta mauy a field victorious, he was there, 


The gartered Fastolffe; Hungerford, and Scalc3, 
Men who had seen the hostile squadrons fly- 
Before the arms of England. Sufiolk there, 
The haughty chieftain towered; blest had he fallen 
Ere yet a courtly minion he was marked 
By public hatred, and the mui'derer's name ! 
There, too, the son of Talbot, young in arms, 
Moved eager, he, at many a tournament, 
With matchless force, had pointed his strong lance, 
O'er all opponents, victor : confident 
In strength, and jealous of his future fame. 
His heart beat high for battle. Such array 
Of marshalled numbers fought not on the held 
Of Crecy, nor at Poictiers ; nor such force 
Led Henry to the fight of Azincoui-, 
When thousands fell before him. 

Onward move 
The host of France. It was a goodly sight 
To see the embattled pomp, as with the step 
Of stateliness the barbed steeds came on: 
To see the pennons'*' roUhig their long waves 
Before the gale; and banners broad and bright 
Tossing their blazonry; and high-plumed chiel's 
Vidames, and seneschals, and chastellains, 
Gay with then- bucklers' gorgeous heraldiy, 
And silken surcoats on the buoyant wind 

And now the knights of France dismount. 
For not to brutal strength they deemed it rigl^.t 
To trust their fame and their dear country's weal; 
Eather to manly courage, and the glow 
Of honom-able thoughts, such as inspire 
Ennobling energy. Unhors'd, unspurr'd, 
Their- javehns lessen'd to a wieldy length. 
They to the foe advanced. The Maid alone, 
Conspicuous on a coal-black courser, meets 
The v/ar. They moved to battle with such sound 
As rushes o'er the vaulted fhmament, 
V/lien from his seat, on the utmost verge of heaven 
That overhangs the void, father of winds ! 
Driesvelger startuig, rears his giant bulk, 
And from his eagle pinions shakes the storm. 
High on her stately steed the martial Maid 
Eode foremost of the war: her burnish'd ormR 

JO AX OF AKC. 127 

Slione like the brook that o'er its peLbled coui'se 

Euns glittering gaily to the noon-tide sun. 

Her foaming courser, of the guiding hand 

Impatient, smote the earth, and toss'd his mane. 

And rear'd aloft with many a froward hound. 

Then answered to the rein with such a step. 

As, in submission, he were proud to show 

His unsubdued strength. Slow on the air 

Waved the white plumes that shadow'd o'er her helm. 

Even such, so fair, so terrible in arms 

Pelides moved from Scjtos, where, conceal'd 

He lay obedient to his mother's fears 

A seemly virgin ; thus the youth appear'd 

Terribly graceful, when upon his neck 

Deidameia hung, and with a look 

That spake the tumult of her troubled soul, 

Fear, anguish, and upbraiding tenderness, 

Gazed on the father of her unborn babe. 

An English knight, who, eager for renown. 
Late left his peaceful mansion, mark'd the Maid. 
Her power mhaculous, and feai'ful deeds. 
He ii-om the troops had heard incredulous. 
And scoff'd their easy fears, and vow'd that he, 
Proving the magic of this di-eaded girl 
In equal battle, would dissolve the spell. 
Powerless oppos'd to valour. Forth he spurr'd 
Before the ranks ; she mark'd the coming foe, 
And fix'd her lance m rest, and rush'd along. 
Midway they met ; full on her buckler di'iven, 
Shiver 'd the English speai- : her better force 
Drove the brave foeman senseless from his seat. 
Headlong he fell, nor ever to the sense 
Of shame awoke, for rushhig multitudes 
Soon crush'd the helpless wai-rior. 

Then the Maid 
Rode through the thickest battle : fast they fell, 
Pierced by her forceful spear. Amid the troops 
Plunged her strong war-horse, by the noise of arms 
Elate and rous'd to rage, he tramj)les o'er. 
Or with the lance protended fr-om liis front. 
Thrusts dawn the thronging squadi-ons. Where she turns 
The foe tremble and die. Such ominous fear 
Seizes the traveller o'er the trackless sands. 


Who marks the dread simoom across the waste 
Sweep its swift pestilence: to earth he falls, 
Nor dares give utterance to the mward prayer. 
Deeming the genius of the desert breathes 
The purple blast of death. 

Such was the sound 
As when the tempest, minglmg air and sea. 
Flies o'er the uptorn ocean : dashing high 
Their foamy heads amid the incumbent clouds. 
The madden'd billows, with their deafening roar, 
Drown the loud thunder's peal. In every form 
Of horror, death was there. They fall, transfix 'd 
By the random arrow's point, or tierce-thrust lance. 
Or sink, aU battered by the ponderous mace: 
Some from their com'sers thrown, lie on the earth, 
Unwieldy in their arms, that, weak to save. 
Protracted aU the agonies of death. 
Ihit most the English fell, by their own fears 
J-Jetrayed ; for fear the evil that it dreads 
Increases. Even the chiefs, who many a daj' 
Had met the war and conquered, trembled now, 
Appah'd by her, the Maid mh-aculous. 
As the blood-nurtured monarch of the wood, 
That o'er the wilds of Afiic, in his strength 
Resistless ranges, when the mutinous clouds 
Burst, and the lightnings thi'ough the midnight sky 
Dart their red tires, lies fearful in his den. 
And howls in terror to the passmg storm. 

But Talbot, fearless where the bravest feared. 
Mowed down the hostile ranks. The chieftain stood 
Like the strong oak, amid the tempest's rage. 
That stands uixharm'd, and while the forest falls. 
Uprooted round, lifts its high head aloft, 
And nods majestic to the warrhig wind. 
He fought, resolved to snatch the shield of death 
And shelter him from shame. The very herd 
Who fought near Talbot, though the Virgin's name 
Made their cheeks pale, and drove the curdling blood 
Back to their hearts, caught from his daring deeds 
New force, and went like eaglets to the prey 
Bi'ueath their mother's wing: to him they look'd. 
Their tower of strength, and followed where his swcri 
Made through the foe a way. Nor did the soa 


Of Talbot shame his lineage ; by his sire 
Emulous he strove, like the young lionet 
When tirst he bathes his miu'derous jaws in bloof?. 
They fought intrepid, though amid their ranks 
Fear and confusion triumphed ; for such awe 
Possess'd the English, as the Etruscans felt, 
V/hen eelf-devoted to the infernal gods 
The gallant Decius stood before the troops, 
Eobed in the victim garb of sacrifice, 
And spake aloud, and call'd the shadowy powers 
To give to Rome the conquest, and receive 
Their willing prey; then rusli'd amid the foe. 
And died upon the hecatombs he slew. 

But hope inspir'd the assailants. Xaiutrailles there 
Spread fear and death ; and Orleans' valiant sou 
Fought as when Warwick tied before his ai-m. 
O'er all pre-eminent for hardiest deeds 
Was Conrade. Where he drove his battle-axe, 
Weak was the buckler or the helm's defence. 
Hauberk, or plated mail ; through all it pierced, 
Eesistless as the forked flash of heaven. 
The death-doom'd foe, who mark'd the coming chief. 
Felt such a chill run through his shivering fi'ame, 
As the night traveller of the Pyrenees, 
Lone and bewildered on his wintry way, 
When from the mountains round reverberates 
The hungry wolves' deep yell ; on every side. 
Their fierce eyes gleaming as with meteor tires. 
The famish'd troop come round : the affrighted mulfi 
Snorts loud with terror, ou his shuddering limbs 
The big sweat starts, convulsive pant his sides. 
Then on he rushes, wild in desperate speed. 

Him dealing death an English knight beheld, 
And spiu-r'd his steed to crnsji him: Conrade leap'd 
Lightly aside, and through the warrior's greeves 
Fixed a deep wound : nor longer could the foe, 
Tortur'd with anguish, guide his mettled horse. 
Or his rude plunge endure; headlong he fell, 
And perish'd. In his castle-hall was hung 
On high his father's shield, with many a dint. 
Graced on the blood-drench'd held of Azincour; 
His deeds the sou had heard ; and when a boy, 


Listening deliglited to the old man's tale 
His little hand would lift the weighty spea:? 
In warlike pastime: he had left behind 
An i!:;fant offspring, and did lonrlly deem 
He, too, in age, the exploits of his youth 
Shoxxld tell, and in the stripling's bosom rous£ 
The fire of glory. 

Conrade the next foe 
Smote where the heavmg membrane seijaratas 
The chambers of the trunk. The dying man, 
In his lord's castle dwelt, for many a year, 
A well-beloved servant: he coidd sing 
Carols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas, 
Songs for the Wassail, and when the boar's head, 
Crown'd with gay garlands, and with rosemary, 
Smoked on the Christmas board : he went to war 
Following the lord he loved, and saw him iall 
Beneath the arm ot Conrade, and expir'd, 
Slain on his master's body. 

Nor the fight 
Vfas doubtfid long. Fierce on the invading host 
Press the French troops imjDetuous, as of old, 
When, pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece, 
The Eastern despot bridged the Hidlespont, 
The rushing sea against the mighty pile 
PvoU'd its full weiglit of waters ; faj' away 
The fearful satrap mark'd on A.sia'a coasts 
The floating fragments, and wi'th ominous fear 
Trembled for the great king. 

Still Talbot strove 
His foot firm planted, his uplifted shield 
Fencing that breast that never yet had known 
The throb of fear. But when the warrior's eye. 
Quick glancing round the fight, beheld the foe 
Pressing to conquest, and his heartless troops 
Striking with feebler force in backward step, 
Then o'er his cheek he felt the patriot flush 
Of shame, and loud he lifted up his voice, 
And cried, " Fly, cravens ! leave your aged chief 
Here in the front to perish ! his old limbs 
Are not like yours, so supple in the flight.- 
Go tell your coiintrymen how ye escaped 
When Talbot fell !" 

In vain the warrior sj^ake. 


fn the uproar of tlie figlit his voice was lost ; 

And tliey, the nearest, who had heard, beheld 

Tlic martial Maid approach, and every thought 

Was overwhelm'd in terror. But the son 

Of Talbot mai-ked her thus across ths plain 

Careering fierce in conquest, and the hope 

Of glory rose within him. Her to meet 

ITe sjjurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed 

Or to retrieve the battle, or to fall 

AVith honour. Each beneath the other's h\ow 

Bowed down; thier lances shivered with the shoclc 

To earth their coursers fell ; at once they rose. 

He from the saddle-bow his falchion caught 

Rushing to closer combat, and she bared 

The lightnin^^ of her sword. In vain the youth 

Essayed to pierce those arms that even the power 

Of time was weak to injure : she the while 

'J'iu-ough many a wound beheld her foeman's blood 

Ooze fast. "Yet save thee, wai-rior!" cried the Maid, 

" Me canst thou not destroy : be timely wise. 

And live !" He answered not, but lifting high 

]Iis weapon, drove with fierce and forceful arm 

Full on the Virgin's helm : fire from her eyes 

Flash'd with the stroke : one step she back recoiled. 

Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of death. 

Him falling Talbot saw. On the next foe. 
"With rage and anguish wild, the warrior turned ; 
His ill-directed weapon to the earth 
Drove down the un wounded Frank : he lifts the sword 
And through his all-in-vain imploring hands 
T'leaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day 
The sword of Talbot,-^^ clogged with hostile gore, 
Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm 
Had slain, the chieftain stood and swayed around 
His furious strokes : nor ceased he from the fight, 
Though now discomfited the English tosd.ii 
Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritleoss 
And mingling with the routed, FastolfFe fled, 
Fastolffe, all fierce"^ and haughty as he was, 
False to his former fame ; for he beheld 
The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear 
Kan through his frame, as thrills the African, 
When, grateful solace in the sultry hour, 


He rises oil the buoyant billow's breast. 
If then his eye behold the monster sharlj 
Gajie eager to devour. 

But Talbot now 
A. moment paused, for bending thitherwarda 
He mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask 
His utmost force. Of strong and stately port 
The onward foeman moved, and bore on high 
A battle-axe, in many a field of blood 
Kno\^'n by the English chieftain. Over heaps 
Of slaughtered, strode the Frank, and bade the troops 
Eetire trom the bold earl : then Conrade spake, 
" Vain is thy valour, Talbot! look around, 
See where thy squadrons fly! but thou shalt lose 
No glory by then- cowaixlice subdued, 
Performing well thyself the soldier's part," 

"And let them fly!" the indignant earl exclaimed, 
"And let them fly! but bear thou witness, chief! 
That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fall. 
But, Frenchman ! Talbot will not tamely fill, 
Or unrevenged," 

So saj-ing, for the war 
He stood prepared : nor now with heedless rage 
Tlie champions fought, for either knew full well 
His foeman 's prowe.'^s; now tliey aim the blow 
Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel 
Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms 
Yield to the strong-driven edge ; the blood streams down 
Tlieir battered mails. With swift eye Conrade marked 
Tlie lifted buckler, and beneath impell'd 
His battle-axe ; that instant on his helm 
The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow 
Shivered. "Yet yield thee, Englishman!" exclaimed 
The generous Frank — " vaiu is this bloody strife : 
Me shouldst thou conquer, little would my death 
Avail thee, weak and wounded!" 

" Long enough 
Talbot has lived," replied the sullen chief: 
" His hour is come ; yet shalt not thou survive 
To glory in his fall!" So, as he spake, 
He lifted from the ground a massy spear. 
And rushed again to battle. 

Now more fierce 

JOAN OF ARC. , 133 

The conflict raged, for careless of himself, 
And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still 
Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aimed 
His barbed javelin, there he swung around 
The guardian shield: the long and vain assault 
Exhausted Talbot now ; foredone with toil 
He bare his buckler low for weariness. 
His buckler now splintered with many a stroke 
Fell piecemeal ; from his riven arms the blood 
Streamed last : and now the Frenchman's battle-axe 
Drove unresisted through the shieldless mail. 
Backward the Frank recoiled. " Urge not to death 
This fruitless contest," cried he ; " live, oh chief! 
Are there not those in England who would feel 
Keen anguish at thy loss 1 a wife perchance 
Who trembles for thy safety, or a child 
Needing a fixther's care !" 

Then Talbot's heart 
Smote him. " Warrior !" he cried, *" if thou dost think 
Tliat life is worth preserving, hie thee hence, 
And save thyself: I loath this useless talk." 

So saying, he addressed him to the figlit, 
Impatient of existence : from their arms 
Flashed fire, and quick they panted ; but not long 
Endured the deadly combat. With full force 
Down through his shoulder even to the chest, 
Conrade impelled the ponderous battle-axe ; 
And at that ii?stant underneath his shield 
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the eail. 
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe 
Should live to boast liis fall. 

Then with faint land 
Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his Iji'ovv 
Wiping the cold dews, ominous of death, 
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove, 
While the long lance hung heavy in his side, 
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe 
He lay, the herald of the English earl 
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw 
His master's arms, " Alas i and is it you. 
My lord?" he cried. " God pardon you your siub. 
I have been forty years your ufficer, 
And time it is 1 should siirrender now 


The ensigns of my office !" So he said, 

And paying thus his right of sepulture, 

Threw o'er the slaughtered chief his blazoned*" coat. 

Then Conrade thus bespake him : " Englishman, 

Do for a dying soldier one kind act ! 

Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste 

Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompence 

It pleases thee to ask." 

The herald soon 
Meeting the missioned Virgin, told his tale. 
Trembling she hastened on, and when she knew 
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan 
Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand. 
And press it to her heart. 

" T sent for thee, 
My friend !" with interrupted voice he cried, 
" That I might comfort this my dying hour 
With one good deed. A fair domain is mine , 
Let Francis and his Isabel possess 
That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile 
Struggling for utterance ; then with breathless speed 
And pale as him he mourned for, Francis came, 
And hung in silence o'er the blameless man. 
Even with a brother's sorrow: he pursued, 
" This Joan will be thy care. I have at home 
Au aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe 
Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus: 
Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose !" 

So saying Conrade drew the javelin forth 
And died without a groan. 

By this the scouts, 
Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain 
Of Patay had arrived; of late so gay 
With marshalled thousands in their radiant arms, 
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun, 
And blazon'd shields, and gay accoutrements, 
■^^I'he pageantry of muixler: now defiled 
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms. 
And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins 
His victor army. Round the royal flag, 
Uprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock, 
]h'offering their eager service. To his arms, 
Or wisely fearful, or 6y speedy force 


Compelled, the embattled towns submit and ov/n 

Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vaiu: 

Jenville andMehuu yield; from Sully's wall 

lluriVl is the bannered lion : on they pass 

Auxerre and Troyes, and Chalons, ope theii- gates. 

And by the mission'd Maiden's rumoured deed^ 

Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims 

Feel their own strength ; against the English troops 

W itli patriot valour, irresistible, 

They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord 

Present the city keys. 

The morn was fair 
When Eheims re-echoed to the busy hum 
Of multitudes, for high solemnity 
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves 
'^-.I'^J^^S procession, through the streets bestrewn 
w ??'''"'^ ^''"^ ^''"''*^^ boughs. The courtier throng 
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured 
The siege right bravely; Gaucour, and La Hire 
The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes. 
La h ayette, name that freedom still shall love 
Alencon, and the bravest of the brave, * 

The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate, 
Soon to release from hard captivity 
A dear-beloved brother; gallant men, 
And worthy of eternal memory ; 
For they, in the most perilous times of France 
Despaired not of their country. By the kin" ' 
The delegated damsel passed alonar ° 

Clad in her batterea arms. She bore on hioh 
Her hallowed banner to the sacred pile, ° 
And fixed it on the altar, whilst her hand 
Poured on the monarch's head the mystic oil,^' 
Walled of yore by milk-white dove from heaven 
(So legends say) to Clovis, when he stood ' 

At Eheims for baptism ; dubious since that day, 
When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warriors' blood, 
And fierce upon their flight the Alemaimi prest, 
And reared the shout of triumph ; in that hour 
Clovis invoked aloud the Cliristian God, 
And conquered: waked to wonder thus, the chief 
Became love's convert, and Clotilda led 
Her husband to the font. 

Tlie missioned ]\rajd 


Then placed on Charles's brow the cro^yn of Fi'a,nc9, 

And back retmng, gazed upon the king 

One moment, quickly scanning all the past, 

Till, in a tumult of wild wonderment, 

She wept aloud. The assembled multitude 

In awful stillness witnessed : then at once, 

As with a tempest rushing noise of winds, 

Lifted their mingled clamours. Now the Maid 

Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand, 

And instant silence followed. 

" King of France I" 
She cried, " at Chinon, when my gifted eye 
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the Spirit 
Pi'ompted, I spake — armed with the sword of God, 
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves. 
And crown thee in tlie rescued walls of Bheims. 
All is accomplished. I have here this day 
Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee 
Chief servant of the people. Of this charge, 
Or well performed or wickedly, high heaven 
Sliall take account. If that thine heart be good, 
[ know no limit to the happiness 
Thou mayest create. I do beseech thee, king !" 
The Maid exclaimed, and fell upon the ground 
And clasped liis knees, " I do beseech thee, king' 
By all the millions that depend on thee 
For v,'eal or woe, consider what thou art. 
And know thy duty! If thou dost oppress 
Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself 
Thou tearest them from their homes, and sendest tljen 
To slaughter, prodigal of misery ! 
If, when the widow and orphan groan 
In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee 
To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue ; 
If, when thou hear'st of thousands massacred, 
Thou sayest, ' I am a king, and fit it is 
That these should perish for me !' if thy realm 
Should, through the counsels of thy government, 
P.e filled with woe, and in thy streets be lieara 
The voice of mourning and the feeble cry 
Of asking hunger ; if at such a time 
Thou dost behold thy plenty-covered board, 
And shroud thee in thy robes of royalty. 
And say that all is well; Oh, gracious tiod! 


Be merciful to sueli a monstrous man, 
When the spirits of the murdered innocent 
Cry at thy throne for justice ! 

King of France ! 
Protect the lowly, feed the hungiy ones. 
And be the orphan's father ! Thus shalt thou 
Become the representative of heaven. 
And gratitude and love establish thus 
Thy reign. Believe me, king, that hireling guardy. 
Though fleshed in slaughter, would be weak to save 
A tyi-ant on the blood-cemented throne 
That totters underneath him," 

Thus the Maid 
Redeemed her country. Ever may the Ail-jiwt 
Give to the ai-ms of freedom such success. 


p. 141. 



As on ] journey through the vale of yearsj 
By hopes enlivened or deprest by fears, 
Allow me, Memory, in thy treasured store 
To view the days tliat will return no more. 
And yes ! before thiue intellectual ray. 
The clouds of mental darkness melt away ! 
As when, at earliest day's awakening dawn 
The hovering mists obsciu-e the dewy la^vn, 
O'er all the landscape spread their influence chill, 
Hang o'er the vale, and wood, and hide the hill ; 
Anon, slow-rising, comes the orb of day, 
Slow fade the shadowy mists and roll away, 
The prospect opens on the traveller's sight. 
And hills, iind vales, ami woods reflect the living light 

O thou, the mistress of my future days. 
Accept thy mmstrel's retrospective lays ; 
To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong, 
Accept, my Edith, IMemory's pensive song. 
Of long-past days I sing, ere yet I knew 
Or thought and grief, or happiness and you ; 
Ere yet my infant heart had learnt to prove 
The cares of life, the hopes and fears of love. 

Corston, twelve years in various fortunes fled 
Have past in restless progress o'er my head, 
Since in thy vale beneath the master's ride 
T roamed an inmate of tlie village school. 
Y"et still will memory's busy eye retrace 
Each little vestige of the well-known place ; 
Each wonted haunt and scene of youthful joy 
Where merriment has cheered the careless boy ; 
Well-pleased will fancy still the spot survey 
Where once he triumphed in the childish play 

142 THE RETllOSPBCrr. 

Without one care where every mom he rose, 
Where every evening sunk to cabn repose. 
Large was the house, though fallen by varyiujj fate 
From its old grandeui* and manorial state. 
Lord of the nuuior here, the jovial squire 
Once called his tenants round the crackling fire ; 
Here while the glow of joy snfiused his face 
He told his ancient exploits in the chase, 
And proud his rival sportsmen to surpass 
He lit again the pipe, and fiUed again the gla;3a. 

But now no more was heard at early morn 
The echoing clangoui" of the huntsman's horn ; 
No more the eager hounds with deepening cry 
Leapt round him as they knew their pastime nigh ; 
The squire no more obeyed the morning call, 
Nor favourite spaniels tilled the sportsman's hall ; 
For he, the last descendant of his race, 
Slept with his fathers and forgot the chase. 
There now in petty empire o'er the school 
The mighty master held despotic rule ; 
Trembling in silence all his deeds we saw, 
His look a mandate, and his word a law ; 
Severe his voice, severe and stern his mien. 
And wondi'ous strict he was, and wondrous wise I ween. 

Even now through many a long long year I trace 
The hour when fii-st with awe I viewed his face ; 
Even now recall my entrance at the dome, 
'Twas the first day I ever left my home ! 
Yeai's intervening have not worn away 
The deep remembrtmce of that wretched day, 
Nor taught me to forget my earliest fears, 
A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears ; 
When close she prest me to her sorrowing heart 
As loath as even I myself to part. 
And I, as I l^eheld her sorrows How, 
With painful effort hid my inward woe. 

But time to youthful troubles brings rehef, 
And each new object weans the child from griefl 
Like April showers the teai's of youth descend, 
Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end; 
A fresher pleasure cheers the following liour, 
As bri";hter shines the sun after the April shower, 


Methinks even now the interview I see, 
The niistress'3 kind snule, the master's gleej 
Much of my future happiness they said^ 
Much of the easy life the scholars led, 
Of spacious play-ground, and of wholesome air, 
The best uistruction, and the tenderest care; 
And when I followed to the garden door 
My father, tUl through tears I saw no more. 
How civilly they soothed my parting pain. 
And how they never sjiake so civilly again. 

Why Loves the soul on earlier years to dweU, 
When memory spreads ai'ound her saddening spell. 
When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast. 
Turns from the present and prefers the past i 
Why calls reilectiou to my pensive view 
Each trifling act of infancy anew, 
Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er, 
Even at the time when trifles please no more ? 
Yet is remembrance sweet, though well I know 
The days of childhood are but days of woe ; 
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours 
The tranquil cahn of childhood's easy hours ; 
Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind. 
Those easy hours for ever left behind ; 
Ere care began the spirit to oppress 
When ignorance itself was happiness. 

Such was my state in those remembered years 

When one small acre bounded all my fears ; 

And therefore stiU with pleasm-e I recall 

The tapestried school, the bright brown boarded iiall, 

The mm-mui-ing brook, that every morning saw 

The due observance of the cleanly law, 

The walnuts, where, when favoui- would allow. 

Full oft I wont to search each well-stript bough ; 

The crab-tree whence we hid the secret hoard" 

With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board. 

These ti-ifliug objects then my heart possest, 

These triflin j- objects stiU remain imprest ; 

So when with unskilled hand the idle hind 

Carves his i-ude name within the sapling's ruid, 

In after yeai's the peasant lives to see 

The ex]3anding letters giow as grows the tree. 


Though every winter's desolating sway 
Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves away, 
That rude inscription uneffaced will last, 
Unaltered by the storm or wintry blast. 

Oh, while well pleased the lettered traveller roaraa 

Among old temjiles, palaces, and domes, 

Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time, 

Where erst Palmyra's towei-s arose sublime, 

Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride. 

And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side, 

Oh, be it mine aloof from public strife 

To mark the changes of domestic life, 

The altered scenes where once I bore a part, 

Where every change of fortune strikes the heart. 

As when the merry bells with echoing sound 

Proclaim the news of victory around, 

Rejoicing patriots run the news to spread 

Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead, 

All join the loud huzza with eager breath, 

And triumph in the tale of blood and death ; 

But if extended on the battle-plaiu, 

Cut oif in conquest, some dear friend be slain, 

Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye, 

And suffering natui-e gxieve that one should die. 

Cold was the morn and bleak the wintry blast 
Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last. 
My bosom boiuided as I wandered round 
With silent step the long-remembered ground^ 
'VNTiere I had loitered out so many an hour. 
Chased the gay butterfly, and cull'd the flower, 
Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, 
Or with mine equals vied amid the chase. 
I saw the church where I had slept away 
The tedious service of the summer day ; 
Or listening sad to all the preacher told, 
In winter waked, and shivered with the cold. 
Oft have my footsteps roamed the sacred ground 
Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around. 
Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall, 
Or aged convent tottering to its fall. 
Yet never had my bosom felt such pain, 
As, Corstoii, when I saw thy scenes again ; 


For many a long-lost pleasure came to view. 
For many a long-past soitow rose anew; 
Where whilome all were friends I stood alone, ' 

Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. 

There wliere my little hands were wont to rear 
With pride the eai-liest salad of the year; 
Where never idle weed to spring was seen, 
Eank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads obscene: 
Still all around Avas sad, I Faw no more 
The pla;y'ful groupe, nor heard the playful roar; 
There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee, 
It seemed as though the world were changed like me. 

Enough ! it boots not on the past to dwell, 
Fair scene of other years a long farewell. 
Eouse up, my soul ! it boots not to repiiie. 
Rouse up ! for worthier feelings should be thine. 
Thy path is plain and straight— that light is given — 
Onwai-d in faith — and leave the rest to heaven. 


What wildly-beauteous form, 
High on the summit of yon bicrown'd hill, 
Lovely in horror, takes her dauntless stand ? 

Though speds the thunder there its decp'ning wa"-,. 
Though round her head the lightnings play,'' 
Undaunted she abides the storm; 
She waves her magic wand. 
The clouds retire, the storm is still; 
Bright beams the sun unwonted light around, 
A nd many a risuig flower bedecks the enchanted ground. 

Ivomanee ! I know thee now, 

I know the terrors of thy brow; 
1 know thine awful mien, thy beaming eye; 

And lo ! whilst mists arise around 

Yon car that cleaves the pregnant ground ! 
Two fiery dragons whiii her tlu'ough the sky; 

1 46 BOMAKCE. 

Her milder sister loves to rove 

Amid Parnassus' laureU'd grove. 

On Helicon's harmonious side. 

To mark the gurgling streamlet glide; 
Meantime through wilder scenes and sterner sines. 
From clime to clime the ardent genius flies. 

She speeds to yonder shore, 
Where ruthless tempests roar, 
A''here sturdy winter holds his northern reign, 
Nor vernal suns reiax the ice-pUed plain : 
Dim shadows circle round her secret seat, 
Wliere wandering, who approach shall hear 
The wild wolf rend the air; 
Through the cloudy-mantled sky 
Shall see the imps of darkness fly, 
And hear the sad scream from the grim retreat; 

Around her throne 
Ten thousand dangers lurk, most fearful, most unkjiown. 

Yet lovelier oft in milder sway. 
She wends ahroad her magic way; 
The holy prelate owns her power; 

In soft'ning tale relates 
The snowy Ethiop's matchless charms. 
The outlaw's den, the clang of arms, 

And love's too-varying fates ; 
The storms of persecution lower, 
Austere devotion gives the stern command, 
" Commit yon impious legend to the fires !" 
Calm in his conscious worth, the sage retires. 
And saves the invalu'd work, and quits the thankless land; 

High tow'rs liis name the sacred list ahove, 
And ev'n the priest* is prais'd who wrote of blameless love. 

Around the tower, whose wall infolds 

Young Thora's blooming charms, 
Eomance's serpent winds his gUttering folds; 

The warrior clasps his shaggy arms. 
The monster falls, the damsel is the spoil, 
Matcliless reward of Eegner'sf matchless toil. 

• Heliodorus chose rather to be deprived of bis see than burn 'ifj 

t First exploit of the celebrated Regner Lodbrog. 


Around the patriot board, 
The knights* attend their lord; 
The martial sieges hov'ring o'er, 

Enrapt the genius views the dauntless baud; 
Still prompt for innocence to fight. 
Or quell the pride of proud oppression's migh!;4 

They rush intrepid o'er the land; 
She gives them to the minstrel lore. 
Hands down her Launcelot's peerless name, 
Eepays her Tristram's woes with fame; 
Borne on the breath of song, 
To future times descends the memory of the throJiji.. 

Foremost 'mid the peers of France, 
Orlando hurls the death-fraught lance; 
Where Durlindana aims the blow. 
To darkness sinks the faithless foe; 
The horn with magic sound 
Spreads deep dismay around; 
Unborn to bleed, the chieftain goes. 
And scatters wide his Paynim foes ; 
The genius hovers o'er the purple plain 
Where OHvero tramples on the slain; 
Bayardo speeds his furious course, 
High towers Eogero in his matchless force. 

Eomance the heighten'd tale has caught. 
Forth from the sad monastic ceU, 
Where fiction with devotion loves to dwell, 

The sacred legendf flies with many a wonder fraught; 
Deep roll the papal! thunders round. 

And everlasting wrath to rebel reason sound. 

Hark ! Superstition sounds to war's alarms. 

War stallvs o'er Palestine with scorching brealh, 
And triumphs in the feast of death ; 
All Eiu-ope flies to arms: 
Enthusiast courage spreads her piercing sound. 
Devotion caught the cry, and woke the echo around. 

• Knights of the Round Table. 

t Instead of forging the life of a saint, Archbishop Turnia vvas better 
employed in falsifying the history of Charlemagne. 

% A bull was issued, commanding all good citizens to btUeve Ariosto's 
poem, founded upon Turpin's history. 


Romance before the army llies. 
New scenes await her wondering eyes; 
A while slie firms her Godfrey's tlirone. 
And malce's Ai'ahia's magic lore her own. 

And hark ! resound, in mingled sound, 
The clang of arms, the shriek of death; 

Each streaming gash bedews the ground, 
And deep and hollow groans load the last struggling breatli; 

Wide through the air the arrows fly, 
Darts, shields, and swords, commix'd appear; 

Deep is the cry, when thousands die, 
When Cceur de Lion's arm constrains to fear; 

Aloft the battle-axe in air 

Whirls around confused despair; 

Nor Acre's walls can check his coui'se. 

Nor Sarzm millions stay his force. 

Indignant, firm the Avarrior stood. 

The liungrj^ lion gapes for food ; 

His fearless eye beheld him nigli, 
Unarm'd, undaunted, saw the beast proceed: 

llomance, o'erhovering, saw the monster die. 
And scarce herself believ'd the more than wond'rous deed. 

And now, with more terrific mien, 

She quits the sad, degenerate scene; 
With many a of mightiest pow'r, 

IJorne in a rubied car^ p.ublime she flies, 

Fire-breathmg grffiins waft her through the skies; 
Around her head the innocuous tempest lowers, 

To Gallia's favour'd realm she goes. 
And quits her magic state, and plucks her lovely rose.* 

Imagination waves her wizard wand. 

Dark shadows mantle o'er the land; 

The lightnings flash, the thunders sound, 

Convulsive throbs the labouring ground; 

What fiends, what monsters, circlmg round, arise! 

High towers of fire aloft aspire. 

Deep yells resound amid the skies, 

Yclad in arms, to fame's alarms 

Her magic warrior flies. 

♦ Komr.nce of th« Rose, written soon after the Crusades, 

ROMANCE, ' 149 

By fiction's shield secure, for many a year 

O'er cooler reason held the genius rule; 
But lo ! Cervantes waves his pointed spear, 

Nor fiction's shield can stay the spear of ridictJo. 

The blameless warrior comes; he first to wield 
His fateful weapon in the martial field; 

By him created on the view, 

Arcadia's valleys bloom anew, 

And many a fiock o'erspreads the plain. 
And love, with innocence, assumes his reign: 

Protected by a warrior's name, 

The kindred warriors live to tame: 
Sad is the scene, where oft from pity's eye 

Descends the sorrowing tear, 

As high the unhooding chieftain lifts the spear, 
And gives the deadly blow, and sees Parthenia die ! 

Where, where such virtues can we see. 

Or where such valour, Sidney, but in thee ? 
Oil, cold of heai't, shall pride assail thy shade. 
Whom all romance could fancy Nature made ? 

Sound, fame, thy loudest blast. 
For Spenser pours the tender strain. 
And shapes to glowing forms the motley train; 
The elfin tribes around 
Await his potent sound. 
And o'er his head Romance her brightest splendours cast 
Deep through the air let sorrow's banner wave ! 
For penury o'er Spenser's friendless head 
Her chillhig mantle spread; 

For genius cannot save ! 
Vii-tue bedews the blameless poet's dust ; 
But fame, exulting, clasps her favourite's laurel'd bust. 

Fain would the grateful muse to thee, Eousseau, 

Pour forth the energic thanks of gratitude; 
Fain would the raptur'd l}Te ecstatic glow. 

To whom romance and Natiu'e form'd all good: 
Guide of my life, too weak these lays, 
To pour the unutterable praise; 
Thine aid divine for ever lend, 
StUl as my guardian sprite attend; 
Umnov'd by fashion's Haunting tlu'ong, 
Let my cahn stream of life smooth its meek course along; 


Let no weak vanity dispense 
Her vapours o'er my better sense; 
But let my bosom glow witli fii-e. 
Let me strike tbe soothing lyre, 
Although by all uuheai-d the melodies expire. 


Lo ! where the livid lightning flies 

With transient furious force, 
A moment's splendour streaks the skies, 

AMiere ruin marks its course : 
Then see how mild the font of day 

Expands the stream of light; 
Wliilst living by the genial ray, 

All nature smiles delight. 

So boisterous riot, on his course 

Uncurb'd by reason, flies; 
And lightning-like its fatal force, 

Soon lightning-like it dies: 
Whilst sober Temperance, still the same. 

Shall shun the scene of strife; 
And, like the sun's enlivening flame. 

Shall beam the lamp of life. 

Let noise and foUy seek the reign 

\Vhere senseless riot rules; 
Let them enjoy the pleasm-es vain 

Enjoy'd alone by fools. 
Urban ! those better joys be ours, 

AVhich virtuous science knows. 
To pass in milder bliss the hours. 

Nor fear the future woes. 

So when stem time their frames shall e^ls^ 

When sorrows pay for sin; 
When every nerve shall feel disease, 

And conscience shrink within; 

TO URBAN. 151 

Shall health's best blessings all be ours, 

The soul sereue at ease. 
Whilst science gilds the passing hours. 

And every hour shall please. 

Even now from dolitude they fly. 

To di'own each thought in noise; 
Even now they shun Eeflection's eye, 

Depriv'd of man's best joys. 
So, when Time's um-elenting doom 

Shall bring the seasons' com-se. 
The busy monitor shall come 

With aggravated force. 

Friendship is om-s: best fiiend, who knows. 

Each varied hour to employ; 
To share the lighted load of woes. 

And double every joy; 
And science too shall lend her aid, 

The friend that never fhes. 
But shines amid misfortune's shade 

As stars in midnight skies. 

Each joy domestic bliss can know 

Shall deck the future hour; 
Or if we taste the cup of woe. 

The cup has lost its power; 
Thus may ^ we hve, till death's keen spear, 

Unwish'd, unfear'd, shall come; 
Then sink, without one guilty fear. 

To slumber in the tomb. 


Thoit mouldermg mansion, whose embattled side 
Shakes as about to fall at every blast; 

Once the gay pile of splendour, wealth, and pride. 
But now the monument of grandeur past. 

152 THE miser's mansion. 

Fall'ii fabric ! pondering o'er thy time trac'd walls. 
Thy mouldering, mighty, melancholy state; 

Each object to the musing mind recalls 
The sad vicissitudes of varymg fate. 

Thy tall towers tremble to the touch of time. 
The rank weeds rustle in thy spacious courts : 

Fill'd are thy wide canals with loathly slime, 

Where, battening undisturb'd, the foul toad sports, 

Deep from her dismal dwelling yells the owl, 
The shrill bat flits around her dark retreat; 

And the hoarse daw, when loud the tempests howl, 
Screams as the wild winds shake her secret seat. 

'Twas here Avaro dwelt, who daily told 
His useless heaps of wealth in selfish joy? 

Who lov'd to ruminate o'er hoarded gold. 
And hid those stores he dreaded to employ. 

In vain to him benignant heaven bestow'd 
The golden heaps to render thousands blest; 

Smooth aged penmy's laborious road, 

And heal the sorrows of affliction's breast. 

For, like the serpent of romance, he lay 

Sleepless and stern to guard the golden sight; 

With ceaseless care he watched his heaps by day. 
With causeless fears he agouiz'd by night. 

Ye honest rustics, whose diurnal toil 

Enrich'd the ample fields this churl possest; 

Say, ye who paid to him the annual spoil. 
With all his riches, was Avaro blest? 

Rose he, like you, at morn, devoid of fear. 
His anxious vigils o'er his gold to keep ? 

Or sunk he, when the noiseless night was near. 
As calmly on his couch of down to sleep ? 

Thou wretch ! thus curst with povei-ty of soul. 
What boot to thee the blessings fortune gave ? 

What boots thy wealth above the world's control. 
If riclies doom theu' chmiish lord a slave ? 

THE misek's mansion. 153 

Chill'd at thy presence grew the stately halls, 

Nor longer echo'd to the song of mirth; 
The hand of art no more adorn'd thy walls, 

Nor blazed with hospitable fires the hearth. 

On well-worn hinges turns the gate no more, 
Nor social friendship hastes the friend to meet 

Nor, when the accustom'd guest draws near the door, 
Run the glad dogs, and gambol round his feet. 

Sullen and stern Avaro sat alone, 

In anxious wealth amid the joyless hall. 

Nor heeds the chilly h(\arth with moss o'ergrown. 
Nor sees the greeu slime mark the mouldering wall. 

^or desolation o'er the fabric dwells. 

And time, on restless pmion, hurried by ; 

Loud from her chimney'd seat the night-bird yells. 
And through the shatter'd roof descends the slvy. 

Thou melancholy mansion ! much mine eye 
Delights to wander o'er thy suJen gloom, 

And mark the daw from yonder turret fly. 
And muse how man himself creates his doom. 

For here, had justice reign'd, had pity known 
With genial power to sway Avaro's breast. 

These treasur'd heaps which fortune made his own, 
By aiding misery might himself have blest. 

And charity had oped her golden store. 

To work the gracious will of heaven intent, 

Fed from her superllux the craving poor, 
And paid adversity what heaven had lent. 

Then had thy turrets stood in all their state, 
Then had the hand of art adorn'd thy wall. 

Swift on its well- worn hinges turn'd the gate. 
And friendly converse cheer 'd the echoing halL 

Then had the vUlage youth at vernal hour 

Hung ro-und with flowery wreaths thy friendly g&t/Of 

And blest in gratitude that sovereign power 
That made the man of mercy good as great. 

154 THE miser's maijsion. 

Tlie traveller then to view thy towers had stood. 
Whilst babes had lispt their benefactor's name. 

And call'd on Heaven to give thee every good, 
And told abroad thy hospitable fame. 

In every joy of life the hours had fled, 

Whilst time on downy pinions hurried by, 

'Till age with silver hairs had gi-ac'd thy head, 

Wean'd from the world, and taught thee how to die. 

And, as thy liberal hand had showcr'd around 
The ample wealth by lavish fortrme given, 

Thy parted spirit had that justice found 

And angels h}Tnn'd the rich man's soul to heaven. 


Gob of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame 
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart; 

Of every woe the cure. 

Of every joy the source; 

To thee I sing: if haply may the muse 

Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts, 

Where never beams thy torch 

To cheer the suUen scene; 

Prom these dull haunts, where monkish science holds. 
In sullen gloom her sohtary reign; 

And spm-ns the reign of love. 

And spurns thy genial sway. 

God of the ruddy cheek and beaming eye, 

Whose soft sweet gaze thrills through the bounding heart. 

With no unholy joy 

I pour the lay to thee. 

I pour the lay to thee, though haply dijom'd 
In solitary woe to waste my yeai's; 

Though doom'd perchance to die 

XJnlov'd and unbewail'd. 


Yet will the lark, in iron cage inthi-all'd, 
Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sim. 

As wide his hriUiant beam 

Illumes the landskip round; 

As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard 

The feather'd quhe, she chaunts her prisou'd hymn, 

And hails the beam of joy. 

Of joy to her denied. 

Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul. 
To thee I hjonn, for every joy is tliine; 

And every vhtue comes 

To join thy generous train. 

Lur'd by the splendour of thy beamy torch, 
Beacon of bUss, young love expands his plumes. 

And leads his willing slaves 

To wear thy flowery bands j 

And then he yields the follies of his reign, 
Thi'ows down the torch that scorches up the soul. 

And lights the purer flame 

That glows serene with thee. 

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway 
Shall cheer the hour of age, when i'ainter beam 

The fading flame of love. 

The fading flame of life. 

Parent of every bliss ! the busy soul 

Of Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues. 

How calm, how clear, thy torch 

Illumes the wintry hour; 

Win paint the wearied labom'er, at that hour 
"Wlien iiiendly dai-kness yields a pause to toil, 

Returning bhthely home 

To each domestic joy; 

Will paint the weil-ti'imm'd fire, the frugal meal 
Prepar'd by fond soUcitude to please, 

The ruddy children round 

That climb the father's knee: 

156 TO HYMEjr. 

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot 
Of honest poverty, oft pamt the state 

Where happiest man is blest 

With mediocrity; 

When toil, no longer irksome and constrain'*' 
By hard necessity, but comes to please. 

To vary the still hour 

Of tranquil happiness. 

Why, Fancy, rvilt thou, o'er the lovely scene 
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet I 

Soothe sad reality 

With visionary bliss ? 

Ah ! rather gaze wliere science, hallow'd light 
Resplendent shines : ah ! rather lead thy son 

Through all her mystic paths, 

To drink the sacred spring. 

Let calm philosophy supply the void, 
And fill the vaciiiit heart; lead calmly on 

Along the unvaried path, 

To age's drear abode; 

And teach how dreadful death to happiiless. 
What thousand horrors wait the last adieu. 

When every tie is broke, 

And eveiy charm dissolv'd. 

Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch 
Who wanes in solitary listlessness. 
Nor knows the joys of life. 
Nor knows the di-ead of death. 


" Lay low yon impious trappings on the groundj 
Bend, Superstition, bend thy haughty head. 
Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:" 
Thus from !iis firm-establish'd throne, 


Replete with vengeful fury, Henry said. 
High Reformation lifts her iron rod, 

But lo ! with stern and threatful mieii, 

Fui-y and rancour desolate the scene, 
Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod. 

Ah ! liold awhile jour angry hands ; 

Ah ! here delay your king's commands. 
For Hospitality will feel the wound! 

In vain the voice of reason cries, 
Whilst uncontroll'd the regal mandate flies. 

Thou, Avalon ! in whose polluted womb 
Tlie patriot monarch found liis narrow tomb ; 
^Vhere now thy solemn pile, whose antique head 
With niche-fraught tiu'rets awe-inspiring spread. 
Stood the memorial of the pious age ? 

A^Tiere wont tlie hospitable fire 

In cheering volumes to aspire, 
And with its genial warmth the pilgrim's woes assuage. 

Low lie thj" turrets now, 
The desart ivy clasps the joyless hearthj 

The dome which luxury yrear'd, 

Though Hospitality was there rever'd, 
Now, from its shatter'd brow. 
With mouldering ruins loads the unfrequented earth. 

Ye minstrel throng, 
In whose bold breasts once glow'd the tuneful fire, 
No longer struck by you shall breathe the plaintive IjTe: 
The Wciils, whose trophied sides along 
Once rung the hai-p's energic somid. 
Now damp and moss-jTuantled load the ground; 
No more the bold romantic lore 
Shall spread from Thule's distant shore; 
No more intrepid Cambria's hills among. 
In hospitable hall, shall rest the child of songr. 

All, Hospitality ! soft Pity's child ! 

"Wliere shall we seek thee now ? 
Genius ! no more thy influence mUd 

Shall gild affliction's clouded brow; 

No more thy cheering smiles impart 

One ray of joy to sorrow's heart; 

No more within the lordly pile 
Wilt thou bestow the bosom-warming smile. 


Wiilst haughty pride Ms gallery displayg. 

Where hangs the row in sullen show 
Of heroes and of chiefs of ancient days. 

The gaudy toil of Turkish loom 

Shall decorate the stately room; 
Yet there the traveller, with wistful eye, 
Beholds the guarded door, and sighs, and passes by« 

Not so, where o'er the desart waste of sand 

Speeds the rude Arab wild his wandering way; 
Leads on to rapine his intrepid band, . 

And claims the wealth of India for his prey; 

There, when the wilder'd traveller distrest. 
Holds to the robber forth the friendly hand. 

The generous Arab gives the tent of rest. 
Guards him as the fond mother guards her child, 
Believes his every want, and guides him o'er the wild. 

Not so amid those climes where rolls alone: 

The Oronoko deep his mighty flood; 
Where rove amid their woods the savage throng, 

Nurs'd up in slaughter, and inur'd to blood ; 

Fierce as their ton-ents, why as the snake 

That shai-ps his venom'd tooth in every brake, 
Aloft the dreadful tomahawk they rear; 
Patient of hunger, and of pain. 

Close in their haunts the chiefs remain, 
And lift in secret stand the deadly spear. 
Yet, should the imarm'd traveller draw near. 

And proffering forth the friendly hand, 

Claim their protection from the warrior band; 
The savage Indians bid their anger cease.. 
Lay down the ponderous spear, and give the pipe of peace. 

Such virtue Nature gives: when man withdi-aws 
To fasliion's chcle, far from nature's laws, 

How chang'd, how fall'n the human breast ! 
Cold prudence comes, relentless foe ! 
Forbids the pitying tear to flow. 

And steals the soul of apathy to i-est; 
Mounts in relentless state her stubborn tiircsjSi 
And deems of other bosoms by her own. 



Aeiste ! soon to sojoiim with the cro"wd, 

In soul abstracted must thy minstrel go; 

Mix in the giddy, fond, fantastic show, 
Mix with the gay, the envious, and the proud. 
1 go : hut still my soul remains with thee, 

Still ■wiU the eye of fancy paint thy channs, 
StiU, lovely maid, thy imaged fonn I see. 

And every pulse will vibrate with alarms, 
When scandal spreads abroad her odious tale. 

When envy at a rival's beauty sighs. 
When rancour prompts the female tongue to railj 

And rage a^cl malice fire the gamester's eyes, 
I turn my wearied soul to her for ease. 
Who only names to praise, who only speaks to please, 


Bb his to court the Muse, whose humble breast 

The glow of genius never coi^ld inspire; 
Wlio never, by the future song possest. 

Struck the bold strings, and waked the daring lyra. 
Let him invoke the Muses from their grove. 
Who never felt the inspiring touch of love. 
If I would sing how beauty's beamy blaze 

Thrills through the bosom at the lightning view 
Or harp the high-ton'd hymn to virtue's praise. 

Where only from the minstrel praise is due, 
I would not court the Muse to prompt my lays. 

My Muse, Ariste, would be found in you ! 
And need I court the goddess when I move 
The warbling lute to sound the soul of love? 

160 soNyETs. 


Let ancient stories sound the painter's art, 

^Vho stole from many a maid liis Venus' charms, 
'Til warm devotion fir'd each gazer's heart. 

And every bosom bounded with alarms. 
He cull'd the beauties of his native isle, 

From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes. 
From some the lovely look, the winning smile, 

From some the languid lustre of the eyes. 
Low to the finish'd form the nations round 

In adoration bent the pious knee; 
With myrtle wreaths tlie artist's brow they crovrn'di 

AVliose skill, Ai'iste, only imaged thee. 
Ill-fated artist, doom'd so wide to seek 
The charms that blossom on Ariste's check ! 


I PEAISE thee not, Ariste, that thine eye 
Knows each emotion of the soul to speak; 

That lilies with thy face might fear to vie. 
And roses can but emulate thy cheek. 

I praise thee not because thine auburn hair 
In native tresses wantons on the wind; 

Nor 3'et because that face, surpassing fair. 
Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: 

'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has .tcm , 
That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest: 
Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast. 

As the soft radiance of the setting sun, 

Wlien varying through the purple hues of light, 

The fading orbit smiles serenely bright. 



Tnou ruin'd relique of the ancient pile, 

Rear'd by that hoary bard, whose tuneful lyre 
First breath'd the voice of music on our isle; 
Where, wam'd iu life's calm evening to retire. 

SONIfETS. 161 

Old Chaucer slowly sunk at last to night; 

Still shall his I'orcet'ul line, his varied strain, 

A fii-mer, nobler monument remain, 
When the high grass waves o'er thy lonely site; 
And yet the cankering tooth of envious age 

Has sapp'd the fabric of his lofty I'hymy; 
Though genius still shall ponder o'er the page, 

And piercing through the shadowy mist ot tinift. 
The festive Bard of Edward's com-t recall, 
As fancy paints the pomp that once adorn'd thy wulL 


As slow and solemn yonder deepening knell 

ToUs through the sullen evening's shadow^' gloom, 
Alone and pensive, in my silent room, 

On man and on mortality I dwell. 

And as the harbinger of death I hear. 

Frequent and full, much do I love to muse 

On life's distemper'd scenes of hope and fear; 
And passion varying her chameleon hues. 

And man pursuing pleasui'e's empty shade, 
'Till death dissolves the vision. So the child 
In youth's gay morn with wondering pleasure smll'd. 

As with the shining ice well-pleas'd he play'd; 

Nor, as he grasps the crystal in his jilay. 

Heeds how the faithless bauble melts away. 



Mt fi'iendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright. 

Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful Hame ; 
Thy temperate splendour cheers the gloom of night, 

Thy genial heat enlivens the cliill'd frame. 
I love to muse me o'er the evening heaiih, 

I love to pause in meditation's sway; 
And whilst each object gives reflection birth, 

Mai'k thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay: 


And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene, 
Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheerj 

And wish at last, in life's declining scene. 
As I had beani'd as bright, to fade as clear: 

So might my children ponder o'er my shrine. 
And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse o'er thine. 



Ungeateful he who pluckt thee from thy staUi, 

Poor faded flow'ret ! On his cai-eless way, 
Inhal'd awhile thine odom's on his walk. 

Then past along, and left thee to decay. 
Thou melancholy emblem ! had I seen 

Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, 
I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem. 

But left thy blossom stUl to grace the green; 
And now I bend me o'er thy wither 'd bloom. 

And di-op the tear, as fancy, at my aide 
Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Emma's tomb; 

" Like thine, sad flower ! was that poor wanderer's pride ! 
Oh, lost to love and truth ! whose selhsh joy 
Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy." 



Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear 
Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, 

As by thy wonted haunts again I rove; 
Why art thou sdent ? Wherefore sleeps thy lay i 
JTor faintly iades the sinking orb of day. 

And yet thy music chai-ms no more the grove. 
The shriU. bat flutters by; from yon dark tower 
The shrieking owlet hads the shadowy hour; 

Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along. 
The horn- cf love is flown ! thy full-dedg'd brood 


No longer need tliy caie to cull tlieir food, 

And nothing now remains to prompt the song: 
But dreai" and sullen seems the silent grove, 
No more responsive to the lay of love. 


Hence, busy tortui-er, wherefore should muie eye 

Revert again to niimy a sorrow past ? 
Hence, busy tortm^er, to the happy lly. 

Those who have never seen the sou o'ercast 

By one dark cloud, thy retrospective beam, 

Serene and soft, may on then- bosoms gleam. 
As the last splendom- of the simamer sky. 

Let them look back on pleasui'e, ere they know 
To mom-u its absence; let them contemplate 
The thorny wmdings of our morttd state, 

Ere unexpected bursts the cloud of woe ; 

Sti-eam not on me thy torch's baneful glow. 
Like the sepulchi'al lamp's funereal gloom. 
In darkness glimmering to disclose a tomb. 


On yon ^vild waste of ruin thron'd, what form 

Beats her swoln breast, and teai's her mxkempt hah ? 

Why seems the spectre thus to com't the storm .'' 
Why glare her fuU-lix'd eyes in stem despair ? 

The deep dull groan I hear, 
I see her rigid eye refuse the soothing tear. 

Ah I fly bar di-eudful reign, 
Tor desolation rules o'er aU the lifeless plaioj 
For deadliest nightshade foiins her secret bower, 

For oft the ill-omen'd owl 

Yells loud the dreadful howl, 
Aad the night spectres shriek amid the midnight hour. 


Pale spectre, Grief! thy dull abodes I know, 

I know the horrors of thy barren plain, 
T k-now the dreadful force of woe, 

I know the weight of thy soul-binding chain; 
But I have fled thy drear domains, 
Have broke thy agonizing chains, 
Drain'd deep the poison of thy bowl. 
Yet wash'd in Science' stream the poison from my souL 

Fair smiles the morn along the azm-e sky. 

Calm and serene the zephyi's whisper by. 
And many a flow'ret gems the painted plain; 

As down the dale, with perfumes sweet. 

The cheerful pilgrim turns his feet. 
His thirsty ear imbibes the throstle's strain; 

And every bird that loves to sing 

The choral song to coming spring. 
Tunes the wild lay symphonious through the grove. 
Heaven, earth, and nature, aU incite to love. 

All, pilgrim ! stay thy heedless feet. 

Distrust each soul-subduing sweet. 
Dash down alluring pleasure's deadly bowl, 

For through thy frame the venom'd juice will creep. 

Lull reason's powers to sombrous sleep. 
And stain with sable hue the spotless soul; 

For soon the valley's charms decay. 

In haggard griefs iU-omen'd sway. 
And barren rocks shall hide the cheering light of day: 

Then reason strives in vain, 

Extinguish'd hope's enchanting beam for aye, 
And vu'tue sinks beneath the galling chain. 

And sorrow deeply drains her lethal bowl, 
And sullen lix'd despair benumbs the nei-veless sonL 

Yet on the summit of yon craggy steep 

Stands Hope, surrounded with a blaze of light 
She bids the wretch no more despondent weep. 
Or linger in the loathly realms of night; 

And Science comes, celestial maid ! 
As mild as good she comes to aid. 
To smooth the rugged steep with magic power. 
And fill with many a wile the longly -lingering hour. 


Fair smiles the morn, in all the hues of day 
Arraj-'d, the wide horizon streams with light; 

Anon the dull mists hlot the living ray. 

And dai-ksome clouds presage the stormy night: 

Yet may the sun anew extend his ray. 

Anew the heavens maj- shine in splendour bright; 

Anew the sunshine gild the lucid plain, 
Vnd nature's frame reviv'd, may thank the genial rain. 

And what, my friend, is life ? 
Wliat but the many- weather 'd April day 5 

Now darkly dimm'd by clouds of strife, 
Now glowing in propitious fortune's ray; 

Let the reed yielding bend its weakly form, 
For, fii-m in rooted strength, the oak defies the storm. 

If thou hast plann'd the morrow's dawn to roam 

O'er distant hill or plain. 
Wilt thou despond in sadness at thy home. 

Whilst heaven drops down the rain ? 
Or will thy hope expect the coming day, 
When bright the sun may shine with unremitted ray ? 

Wilt thou float careless down the stream of time, 

In sadness home to duU oblivion's shore. 
Or shake oft' grief, and " build the lofty rhyme," 
And live 'till Time himself shall be no more ? 
If thy light bark have met the storm, 
If thi'eatening clouds the sky deform. 
Let honest truth be vain; look back on me. 
Have I been " sailing on a summer's sea?" , . 

Have only ze^^hyrs fiU'd my swelling sails. 

As smooth the gentle vessel glides along? 
Lycon, I met unscai-'d the wintry gales. 

And sooth'd the dangers with the song: 
So shall the vessel sail sublime, 
And reach the port of fame adown the stream of tiin« 


Akd does my friend again demand the strain, 
Still seek to list the sorrow-soothing lay ? 

Still would he hear the Avoe-worn heart complain. 
When melancholy loads the lingering day ? 


SliftU partial friendsliip turn the favouring eye, 
No fault behold, but every charm descry; 
And shall the thankless bard liis honour'd strain deny ? 

**No single pleasure shall your pen bestow:" 
Ah, Lycon ! 'tis that thought affords delight; 

'Tis that can sooth the wearying weight of woe, 
Wlien memory reigns amid the gloom of night: 

For fancy loves the distant scene to see. 

Far from the gloom of solitude to flee, 
^d think that absent friends may sometimes tliink of me. 

Oft when my steps have trac'd the secret glade, 

Wliat time the pale moon glimmering on the plain 
Just mark'd where deeper darkness dyed the shade. 
Has contemplation lov'd the night-bird's strain: 
Still have I stood, or silent mov'd and slow. 
Whilst o'er the copse the tlirilling accents flow. 
Nor deem'd the pensive bird might pour the notes of woe. 

Yet sweet and lovely is the night-bird's lay, 

The passing pilgiim loves her notes to hear, 
When mirth's rude reign is sunk with parted day. 

And silence sleeps upon the vacant ear; 
For staid reflection loves the doubtful light. 
When sleep and stillness lull the noiseless night. 
And breathes the pensive song a soothing sad delight- 
Fearful the blast, and loud the torrents roar. 

And sharp and piercing drove the pelting rain, 
Wlien wildly wandering on the Volga's shore. 

The exil'd Ovid pour'd his plaintive strain; 
He moum'd for ever lost the joys of Rome, 
He mo\u-n'd his widow'd wife, his distant home. 
And all the weight of woe that load the exile's doom. 

Oh ! could my lays, like Sulmo's minstrel, flow. 

Eternity might love her Bion's name; 
The muse might give a dignity to woe. 

And grief's steep path should prove the path to famer 
But I have pluck'd no bays from Phcebus' bower, 
My fading garland, form'd of many a flower. 
Hay haply smile and bloom to last one little hour. 


To please that little hour is all I crave, 

Lov'd by my friends, I spurn tlie love of fame; 

High let the grass o'erspread ray lonely grave. 
Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn naraej 

There never may the pensive pilgrim go. 

Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe. 
For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below. 

Be mine,_ whilst journeying life's rough road along, 
O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go. 

To hail the hour of pleasure with the song. 

Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; 

Tlie song each passing moment shall beguile, 

Perchance, too, partial friendship deigns to smile. 
Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while. 

Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, 

Lull'd in oblivion's lap t« wear away. 
And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife. 

And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: 
Be mine, in age's drooping horn-, to see 
The lisping cliildren climb their grandsire's knee. 
And train the future race to live and act like me. 

Tlien, when the inexorable hour shall come 
To tell my death, let no deep requiem tolL 

No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb. 

Nor priest be paid to hymn my pai'ted soul; 

Buflet my cliildren, near their little cot. 

Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: 
So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot. 



Henet, 'tis past ! each painful effort o'er. 
Thy love, thy Rosamund, exists no more: 
She lives, but lives no longer now for you; 
She writes, but wiites to bid the last adieu. 


Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eyeP 
Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh P 
Down, bosom ! down, and leani to heave in prayer; 
Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: 
Ah, no ! still, still the lui'king sin I see, 
My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. 
Yes, Heni-y ! through the vestal's guilty veins, 
With burning sway the furious passion reigns; 
For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, 
And love torment in Godstow's haUow'd wail. 

Yet virtue from her deathlike sleep awakes, 
Remorse comes on, and rears her whip of snakes. 
Ah, Henry ! fled are all those fatal charms 
That led their victim to the monarch's armsj 
No more responsive to the evening air 
In wanton ringlets waves my golden hair; 
No more amid the dance my footsteps move. 
No more the languid eye dissolves with love; 
Fades on the cheek of Rosamund the rose, 
And penitence awalces from sin's repose. 

Harlot ! adultress ! Henry ! can I bear 
Such aggravated guilt, such full despair ! 
By me the maniage-bed defil'd, by me 
The laws of heaven forsook, defiled for thee ! 
Dishonour fix'd on Clifiord's ancient name, 
A lather sinldng to the grave with shame; 
These are the crimes that harrow up my heart. 
These are the crimes that poison memory's dart; 
For these each pang of penitence I prove. 
Yet these, and more than these, are lost in lov3. 

Yes, even here amid the sacred pile. 
The echoing cloister, and the long-di-awn aisle; 
Even here, when pausing on the silent air. 
The midnight bell awakes and calls to prayer; 
As on the stone I bend my clay-cold knee. 
Love heaves the sigh, and di-ops the tear for thee: 
All day the penitent but Avakes to weep, 
'Till natm-e and the woman sink in sleep; 
Nightly to thee the guilty di-eams repair. 
And morning wakes to sorrow and despair! 


Lov'd of my heart, the conflict soon must coasc. 
Soon must this harrow'd bosom rest in peace ; 
Soon must it heave the hist soul-rending breath. 
And sink to slumber in the arms of deaths 

To slumber ! oh, that I might slumber there ! 
Oh, that that dreadiul thought might lull despair ! 
That death's chiU dews might quench this vital ilaine. 
And life lie mouldering with this lifeless trame ! 
Then would I strike with joy the friendly blow, 
Then rush to mingle with the dead below. 
Oh, agonizmg hour ! when round my head 
Dark-brow'd despair his shadowing wings shall spread : 
Wlien conscience from herself shall seek to Hy, 
And, loathing life, still more shall loath to die ! 
Already vengeance lifts his iron rod, 
Already conscience sees an angry G od ! 
No virtue now to shield my soul I boast. 
No hope protects, for innocence is lost ! 

Oh, I was cheerful as the lark, whose lay 
Trills through the etlier, and awakes the day ! 
Mine was the heartfelt smile, when earliest lighi 
Shot through the fading curtain of the night; 
Mine was the peaceful heart, the modest eye 
That met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why. 
At evening hour I struck the melting l3Te, 
Whilst partial wonder fiilM my doating sire, 
'Till he would press me to his aged breast, 
And cry, " My child, in thee my age is blest ! 
Oh ! may kind Heaven protract my span of life 
To see my lovely Rosamund a wife; 
To view her children climb their grandsire's Icnee^ 
To see her husband love, and love like me ! 
Then, gracious Heaven, decree old Cliifovd's end. 
Let his grey hairs in peace to death descend." 

Tlie dreams of bliss are vanish'd from his vieir. 
The buds of hope are blasted all by you ; 
Thy child, Clifford ! bears a mother's name, 
A mother's anguish, and a harlot's shame; 
Even when her darling children climb her knee. 
Feels the fuU force of guilt and infamy ! 


Wretch, most unhappy ! thus condemii'd to kno^/j 
Even in her dearest bliss, her keenest woe; 
Cvirst be this form, accui'st these fatal chai'ms 
That buried virtue in seduction's anns; 
Or rather curst that sad, that fatal hoiur. 
When Henry first beheld and felt their power; 
When my too-partial brother's doating tongue 
On each perfection of a sister hung; 
Told of the graceful foiTu, the rose-red cheek, 
The ruby lip, the eye that knew to speak, 
The golden locks, that, shadowing half the face 
Display'd their charms, and gave and hid a grace. 
'Twas at that hour when night's englooming sway 
Steals on the fiercer glories of the day; 
Sad aU. ai'ound, as silence stills the whole. 
And pensive fancy melts the softening soul; 
These hands upon the pictured arras wove 
The mournful tale of Edwy's hapless love; 
"When the fierce priest, inflam'd with savage pride. 
From the young monai'ch tore his blushing bride: 
Loud rung the horn, I heard the coui'sers' feet. 
My brothers came — o'erjoyed I ran to meet; 
But when my sovereign met my wandeiing eye, 
1 blush'd, and gaz'd, and fear'd, yet knew not why; 
O'er all his form -with wistful glance I ran, 
Nor knew the monarch, till I lov'd the man. 
Pleas'd with attention, overjoy'd I saw 
Each look obey'd, and eveiy word a law. 
Too soon I felt the secret flame advance. 
Drank deep the poison of the mutual glance; 
And stiU I ply'd my pleasing task, nor knew 
In shadowing Edvv"y I had poiiraj^'d you. 

Thine, Hemy, is the crime: 'tis thine to beai 
The aggravated weight of full despair; 
To wear the day in woe, the night in tears. 
And pass in penitence the joyless years: 
Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes 
Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise: 
Fraught with deceit, th' insidious monai'ch came. 
To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; 
To pay each service of old Clifford's race 
With all the keenest anguish of disgrace ! 
Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye, 
Nor seera'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; 


Still, as ne urg'd Lis suit, his wily art 
Told not his rank till victor o'er my heart: 
Ah, known too late ! in vain my reason strove, 
Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love. 

How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigli ? 
How spoke thy looks ? how glow'd thine ardent eye r* 
When skill'd in gmle, that soft seductive tongue 
Talk'd of its truth, and Clifibrd was undone. 
Oh, cui'sed hour of passion's maddening sway. 
Guilt which a life of tears must wash away ! 
Gay as the mornuig lai'k no more I rose. 
No more each evening sunk to calm repose; 
No more in fearless innocence mine eye. 
Or met the glance, or tum'd it knew not why; 
No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre. 
No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; 
But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein. 
But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; 
Still vainly seeking from myself to fly, 
In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; 
A thousand torments stUl my steps pursue. 
And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. 
Haiiot, adultress, each detested name. 
Stamps everlasting blots on CliSbrd's fame ! 
How can this wretch prefer the prayer to Heaven ? 
How, self-condemned, expect to be ibrgiven ? 

And yet fond hope, with self-deluding art, 
Stm sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; 
Paints thee most wretched in domestic strife. 
Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; 
And vainly whispers comfort to my breast — 
" I cui'st myself that Henry might be blest." 
Too fond deluder ! impotent thy power 
To whisper comfort in the moui'uful hour ; 
Weak, vain seducer, hope ! thy balmy breath. 
To soothe reflection on the bed of death; 
To calm stern conscience' self-afflicting care, 
Or ease the raging pangs of wiLd despair. 

Why, Natm-e, didst thou give this fatal face P 
Why heap with chai-ms to load me with disgrace f 
Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move ? 
Why form the melting soul too apt for love P 


Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breas*. 
Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest. 
Now bound in sin's indissoluble chauis. 
Fled are the charms, the gmlt alone remains ! 

Oh ! had fate plac'd amidst Earl Clifford's hall 
Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; 
Low in my hopes, and homely rude my fece. 
Nor form, nor wishes rais'd above my place; 
How liappy, Rosamund, had been thy lot, 
In peace to live unknown, and die forgot ! 
Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, 
Nov scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; 
Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame. 
Nor infamy debas'd a Clifford's name. 

Oh, Clifford ! Oh, my sire ! thy honours nor/ 
Thy child has blasted on tliine ancient brow; 
Fallen is that darlmg child from virtue's name. 
And thy grey hairs sinlc to tits grave with shame f 
Still busy fancy bids the scene arise. 
Still paints the father to these wi"etched eyes. 
Methinks I see him now, with folded arms. 
Think of his child, and cm-s* her fatal charms: 
Those charms, her ruin ! that in happier days, 
Witli all a father's love, he lov'd to praise : 
Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low 
In all the silent energy of woe; 
Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild. 
He praj's forgiveness for his sinful child. 
And yet I live ! if this be life, to know 
The agonizmg weight of hopeless woe : 
Thus far, remote from every friendly eye. 
To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh. 
Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove, 
To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: 
Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, 
A living victim in the cloister'd tomb. 
To pray, though hopeless, justice should foi'give, 
Scorn'd by myself: if this be life, I live! 

Oft wiU remembrance, in her painful hour. 
Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bowers 


Recal each sinful scene of life to view. 

And give the soul again to guilt and you. 

Oh ! I have seen thee trace the hower around, 

And heard the forest echo Eosamund; 

Have seen thy frantic looks, thy wildering eye. 

Heard the deep groan and bosom-rendmg sigh; 

Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn t;'roari, 

I Uve — but live to penitence alone; 

Depriv'd of every joy which life can give, 

jMust vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live. 

Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, ai-e knowEs, 
Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own ! 
Oh ! thou hast lost the dearest chai'm of life, 
The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; 
One who, with every vii'tue, only knew 
The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; 
One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share 
Thine every joy, and solace every care; 
For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know 
The aggravated weight of guilt and woe. 

Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee, 
Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me ! 
Oh ! that my soul this last pui-e joy may know. 
Sometimes to soothe the di'eadful hour of woe. 
Henry ! by all the love my hfe has shown. 
By all the sinful raptures we have known, 
By all the parting pangs that rend my breast. 
Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; 
And, when the last tremendous hour shall come. 
When aU ni}' woes are bmied in the tomb, 
Then grant the only boon tliis \vi'etch shidl crave — 
Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; 
Pause o'er the turf in fulness bent of woe. 
And think who lies so cold and pale below ! 
Think from the grave she speaks the last decree, 
" What I am now, soon, Hem-y, thou must be l" 
Then be this voice of wonted power possest. 
To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast : 
So should my prayers with just success be crown 'd 
Should Hemy learn remorse from Eosamund; 
Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove. 
That even death was weak to end our love. 



Loud was the hostile clang of arms. 

And hoarse the hollow sound, 
When Pompey scatter'd wild alarms 

The ravag'd East around, 

The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: 
An iron forest of destructive spears 

Eear'd their stem stems, where late 
The hending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: 

Rome, tlirough the swarming gate, 
Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth : 

Such was the will of fate ! 
Prom the cold regions of the North, 
At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, 
And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome. 

" Roman !" ('twas thus the chief of Asgard cried) 

" Ambitious Roman ! triumph for awhile. 
Trample on freedom in thy victor pride; 
Yet, though now thy fortune smUe, 
Though Mithridates fly forlorn. 
Once thy dread, but now thy scorn, 
Odin will never live a shameful slave; 
Some region will he yet explore. 

Beyond the readi of Rome; 
Where, upon some colder shore, 
Freedom yet thy force shall brave. 
Freedom yet shall find a home : 
There, where the eagle dares not soar. 
Soon shall the raven find a safe retreat. 
Asgard, farewell ! Farewell, my native seat I 
Farewell for ever ! Yet, whUst life shall roll 
Her warm tide through thine injured cliieftaiw's brea^tj, 
Oft will he to thy memory drop the tear. 
Never more shall Odin rest. 
Never quaff the sportive bowl, 
Or soothe in peace his slothful soul. 
Whilst Rome triumphant lords it here. 


Triumpli in thy victor miglit. 
Mock the chief of Asgard's flight j 
But soon the seeds of vengeance shall be sown. 
And Odin's race hni-l down thy blood-cemented throne." 

Nurtur'd by Scandinavia's hardy soil. 
Strong grew the vigorous plant; 
Danger could ne'er the nation daunt, 
For war, to other realms a toil. 
Was but the pastime here ; 
SkiU'd the bold youth to hurl the unening spear. 
To wield the falchion, to direct the dart, 
Firm was each warrior's frame, yet gentle was his heart. 

Freedom, with joy, beheld the noble race, 
And fill'd each bosom with her vivid fire; 

Nor vice, nor luxury, debase 

The free-bom offspring of the free-bom sire; 

There genuine poesy, in freedom bright, 
Diffus'd o'er all her clear, her aU-eulivening light. 

From Helicon's meandering rilb 
The inspiring goddess fled; 

Amid the Scandinavian hills 
In clouds she hid her head; 
There the bold, the daring muse. 
Every dai'ing warrior wooes; 
The sacred lust of deathless fame 
Burnt in every warrior's soul: 
" Whilst future ages hymn my name, 
(The son of Odin cries) 
I shall quaff the foaming bowl 
With my forefathers in yon azure skiee^ 
Methinks I see my foeman's skuU 
With the mantling beverage fiiU; 
I hear the shield-roof'd hall resound 
To martial music's echoing sound; 
I see the virgins, valour's meed,— 
Death is bliss — I rush to bleed." 

See where the murderer Egill stands. 
He grasps the harp with skilful hands. 

And pmu-s the sonl-emoving tide of song; 

Mute admiration holds the listening throngs 


The royal sire forgets Ids mui'der'd sonj 
Eric forgives ; a thousand years 

Their swift revolvmg course have run, 
Smce tlius the bard could check tlie father's teans, 

Could soothe his soul to peace, 

And never shall the fame of EgiU cease. 

Dark was the dungeon, damp the ground, 

Beneath the reacli of cheering day. 

Where Eegner dying lay; 
Poisonous adders all around 
On the erpu'ing warrior hung, 
Yet the full stream of verse flow'd from his dauntless tongria; 
" We fought with swords," the warrior crj^'d, 
" We fought with swords," he said — he died. 

Jomshui'g lifts her loftj' walls, 
Sparta revives on Scandinavia's shore; 

Undismay'd each hero falls. 
And scorns his death in terror to deplore. 

" Strike, Thorchill, strike ! di-ive deep the blow, 
Jomsburg's sons shall not complain. 

Never shall the brave appear 
Bound in slavery's shaniefid chain, 

Freedom ev'n in death is dear. 
Strike, TorchiU, strike I drive deep the blow, 
We joy to quit this world of woe; 
We rush to seize the seats above, 
And gain the warrior's meed of happiness and love." 

The destin'd hour at length is come, 
And vengeful heaven decrees the queen of cities' dooiHi 
No longer heaven withholds the avengmg blow 

From those proud domes whence Brutus lledj 

"Wliere just Cherea bow'd his head. 
And proud oppression laid the Graccui low; 

In vain the timid slaves oppose, 

For freedom led their sinewy foes. 
For valour fled with liberty: 

Rome bows her lofty walls. 

The imperial city falls. 
She falls — and lo, the world again is free 3" 



SorL of my much-lov'd Freya! yes, T oorael 

No pale disease's slow-consuming po'.ver 

Has hasten'd on thy husband's hour; 

Nor pour'd by victor's thirsty hand 

Has Odin's life bedew'd the land: 
I rush to meet thee by a self-will'd doon. 

No more my clattering iron car 

Shall rush amid the throng of war ; 
No more, obedient to my heavenly cause, 
ShaU. crimson conquest stamp his Odin's laws. 

I go — I go ; 
Yet shall the nations own my sway 
Far as yon orb shall dart his all-enlivening ray: 

Big is the death-fraught cloud of woe 
That hangs, proud Rome, impending o'er thy wall, 
For Odin shall avenge his Asgard's fall. 
Thus burst from Odm's lips the fated sound, 

As high in air he rear'd the gleaming blade; 
His faithful friends around 
In silent wonder saw the scene, affray 'd: 
He, unappall'd, towards the skies 
Uplifts his death-denouncing eyes; 
" Ope wide Valhalla's shield-roof'd hall, 
Virgins of bliss ! obey your master's call; 
From these injurious realms below 
The sire of nations hastes to go." 

Say, falters now your chieftain's breath ? 

Or chills pale terror now his death-like face? 
Then weep not, Thor, thy friend's approaching diiitb; 

Let no unmanly tears disgrace 

The first of mortal's valiant race-. 

Dauntless Heimdal, mourn not now. 

Balder! clear thy cloudy brow; 

I go to happier realms above, 

To realms of friendship and of love. 

This unmanly grief dispelling, 

List to glory's rapturous call; 
So with Odin ever dwelling, 

Meet him in the shield-roof'd ball : 


Still Bhall Odin's fateful lance 
Before his daring fiiends advance; 
Wien the bloodj'- fight beginning, 
Hekns and shields, and hauberks linglng 
Streanaing life each fatal wound 
Pours its current on the ground; 
StiU in clouds portentous riding 
O'er his comrade host presiding. 
Odin, from the stormy air. 
O'er your affi.-ighted foes shall scatter wild despair, 

'Mid the mighty din of battle. 
Whilst conflicting chariots rattle. 
Floods of pui-ple slaughter streaming, 
Fate-fraught falchions widely gleaming; 
When Mista marks her destan'd prey. 
When di-ead and death deform the dayj 
Happy he amid the strife. 
Who poui's the cun-ent of his life; 
Eveiy toil and trouble ending, 
Odin from his haU descending. 
Shall bear him to his blsst retreat. 
Shall place him in the warrior's seat. 

Not such the destin'd joys that wait 
The wi'etched dastard's future fate: 
Wild shrieks shall yell in every breath,— 
The agonizing shiieks of death. 
Adown lus wan and livid face 
Big di'ops their painfiil way shall trace 
Each limb in that tremendous hour 
Shall quiver in disease's power. 
Grim Hela o'er his couch shall hang. 
Scoff at his groans, and point each pang; 
No vu'gin goddess him shall call 
To join you in the shield-roof 'd hall; 
No Vallcery for him prepare 
The smiling mead with lovely care: 
Sad and scom'd the wretch shall lie. 
Despairing shriek — despairing die ! 
No Scald in never-dying lays 
Shall rear the temple of his praiso; 
No \'irgin in her vernal bloom 
Bedew with tears his high-rear'd tomb; 


No soldier sound his honour'd name; 
"No song shall hand him down to fame; 
But rank weeds o'er the inglorious grave 
Shall to the blast theu' high heads wave; 
And swept by time's strong stream away, 
He soon shall sinli — oblivion's prey; 
And deep in Niflehini — dreary cell, 
Aye shall his sprite tormented dwell, 
Where grim remorse for ever wakes, 
tVliere anguish feeds her torturing snakes. 
Where disappointment and delay 
For ever guard the doleful way; 
Amid the joyless land of woe 
Keen and bleak tlie chiU blasts blow; 
Drives the tempest, pom's the raiti. 
Showers the had with force amain; 
YeU the night-birds as they fly 
Flitting in the misty sky; 
Glows the adder, swells the toad, 
For sad is Hsla's cold abode. 

Spread then the Gothic banners to the sky. 
Lift your sable banners high ; 
Yoke yom- coursers to the car. 
Strike the sounding shield of war; 
Go, my lov'd companions, go. 
Trample on the opposing foe; 
Be like the raging torrent's force. 
That, rushing from the hills, speds on its foaming course, 

Haste, my sons, to war's alarms. 
Triumph in the clang of arms; 
Joy amid the wai'hke toU, 
Feed the raven with your spoU; 
Go, prepare the eagle's food, 
Go, and drench the wolf vnth blood, 
'Till ye shall hear dai'k Hela's call. 
And vkgins vv'afb ye to my hall; 
There, wi'apt in clouds, the shadow}^ throng 
To airy combat glide along ; 
'Til wearied with the fi-ieudly fight, 
Serimner's flesh recruits their might; 
There, whilst I gi-asp the Eoman skullj 
With hydromel sweet-smiling fuU, 


The festive song shall echo round, 

The Scald repeat the deathless sound : 

Then, Thor, when thou from fij^ht shalt cease. 

When death shall lay that arm in peace, 

Still shall the nations fear thy nod, 

The first of warriors now, and then their god; 

But be each heart with rage possest. 

Let vengeance glow in every breast ; 

Let conquest fell the Roman wall, 

Revenge on Rome my Asgard's fall. 

The Druid throng shall fall away. 

And sink beneath your victor sway; 

No more shall nations bow the knee, 

Vanquish'd Taranis, to thee ; 

No more upon the sacred stone, 

Tentates, shall thy victims groan; 

The vanquish'd Odin, Rome, shall cause thy fall, 
And his destruction shake thy proud imperi;il wall. 

Yet, my faitliful friends, beware 

Luxury's enerving snare; 

'Twas this that shook our Asgard's dome 

That drove us from our native home; 
'Twas this that smooth'd the way for victor Rome: 

Gaul's fruitful plains invite your sway, 

Conquest points the destin'd way; 

Conquest shall attend your call. 
And your success shall gild still more Valhalla's hall. 

So spake the dauntless chief, and pierc'd his breast. 
Then rush'd to seize tiie seat of endless rest. 


Israel, my hour is come ! 

Borne on the wings of time, 

Death mai'ks his destined prey, 
Now, in the fulness of my age. 
Ere faint my shrunken limbs wax weak. 

Ere dim my rayless eye, 
Of years and honours full, I seek the tomb 


OlTspring of Abrara, Moses' guardian voice, 
No more shall breathe the will 
Of your protecting God. 
For not to nie is given 
On Canaan's promis'd land 
At last to rest in peace: 
Por not to me is given 
O'er Jordan's barrier ilood 
To reach the abundant clune: 
On Moab's pathless plains 
Must Moses rest in peace. 

Wlicn wandering o'er the desert wilds of Ziu 

Faint grew your parched frames, 
Then Israel sinn'd against the God of Host.-, 

Have ye forgot the hour 

^\1ien murmuring anger buzz'd 

Along the busy tents ? 

Have ye forgot the hour 

AVlien, bold in secrecy, 

Sedition's impious feet 

Stole on from tent to tent ? 
Then Israel sinn'd against the God of Hosts: 

On me his vengeance fell. 

'Twas there where Miriam died. 

Where o'er a sister's corse 
I rear'd in grief the monumental stone. 

'Twas then — the prophet's ardour lost — ■ 

I felt the brother's gi-ief: 
For memoiy's painful gratitude recall'd 

The succour- Miriam gave. 

The succour Miriam gave, 
When haven'd on the sedgy banks of Nile 

Reposed my iniant ark. 

I call'd to mind her care, 

I call'd to mind her love ; 
How sweetly soft she touch'd the lute 
How graceful moved amid the dance. 

Sedition's impious feet 

Stole on li-om tent to tent. 

Till, boldened by success, 
Aloud the furv lifts her daring voioc. 


" Why, Moses, did thy treach'rous art 
Lead us from Ei^-pt's fertile clime. 

Amid these pathless wilds 

To sink, wan famine's prey ? 

Amid these pathless wilds, 

Where even Nature dies ! 
For here no seeds enrich the earth, 
No fig-tree spieads its grateful shade, 
No vine depends its cluster'd boughs. 
Nor frigid fountain winds 
Its murmuring course along. < 

Our purch'd frames sink— 

We die for thirst." 

'Twas thus, blaspheming Heaven, ye spake :— 
Heaven bm'st in twain by me the rock; 
The spring rush'd forth. 
" But never, Moses, shall thy feet 
Possess the promis'd land:" 
For Israel sinn'd against the God of Hosts : 
On me his vengeance fell. 
From Nebo's mountain top 
I view'd the promis'd land; 
O'er Palestine's luxuriant soU 

I cast the eagle ken. 
Far as the distant ocean's shore, 
O'er Gilead's fertile soil I gaz'd: 
The southward plains I saw. 
And Jericho's rich plain. 
Where, bower'd in palm-trees, I'ise her lofty towers. 

Blest are Abram's favour'd race, 

Blest above the sons of men; 

For theirs are Canaan's fertile lands. 

For theirs the aid of Heav'u. 
From stem oppression's tyrant sway. 
From ignominy, bonds, and death. 

Heaven led the people forth. 
Through pathless deserts wild and wa.ste, 
Through the wide wilderness of dearth, 
Wbere desolation blasted all around. 

Heaven led the people forth. 
E'en as the eagle's parent care 

Hangs o'er the lofty nest. 


And flutters fondly o'er hei young. 

And spreads her guardian wings, 
And leads them from the eyry forth. 

And bids them faoe the sun. 

Offspring of Israel ! have your thankless hearts 
Forgot the boimteous gifts of Heaven ? 
When frighted ocean stopt his waves. 

And rushing seas stood stiU ? 

Have ye forgot the fii-es 

That led your nightly march. ? 

Forgot the heavenly food 

That fell like evening dew. 

For Israel's chosen race ? 
Oh ! write his mercies on your hearis. 
Treasure his bounties in your soul. 

Obey the wiU of Heaven. 

Sons of my care ! to you, from highest heaven, 

Jeshurun's God has spoke. 
By me Jehovah gave the words of life: 

Observe his sacred laws. 
And fly the snai'es which superstition spreads. 

Fly Moloch's horrid rites, 

Astarte's orgies lewd, 

And Tharmnuz' annual dirge. 

And Chemos' wanton wilea. 

Is Sittim's field forgot ? 
Forgot the fatal hour when thousands fel3,9 

And Heaven's avenging arm 

Hurl'd down the shafts of death f 
For then in Chemos' wanton rites 

The sons of Israel join'd, 
And caught the harlot's melting eye. 

And gave the soid. to love. 
Then, subdued by syi-eu pleasure. 
Captive reason bow'd to beauty. 

Forgot the laws of God ! 

Forgot avenging Heaven — 
For woman's imldly-melting eya 

ThriU'd through the soften' d soul 


Then Zimri died. 
Then Cozbi's voice, 
That stole resistless o'er the Hebrew's heart. 
In vain for pity pray'd. 
The zealous priest arose; 
E'en through her lover's breast 
He pierc'd the lovely fair idolater. 

Blest, Phineas, be thy name; 
Blest be thy heart of adamantine faith. 
That spuru'd the woman's prayer. 

Israel, be thine to shun 

Alluring beauty's wiles, 

To fly the melting glance. 

The loosely languid look. 
'Tis thine to wreak the wrath of Heaven, 
'Tis thine to lift aloft the sword. 

Lay low the despot chiefs. 

Lay low the lofty tow'rs. 

Let the despots assemble theu- hosts, 

Let them marshal theu" thousands in pride; 

Let the offspring of Anak arise 

Prom Jericho's palm-bower'd throne^, 

And Ai and Sol^Tna's towers. 

Let them rush &om their mountains to war, 

Let them cover the valley with ai'ms. 

For Jehoyah will war for his sons. 

Low Ai's walls shall lie; 
Devoui"ing flames shall waste 
Huge Hazor's strength to dust; 
Of Jericho's tall towers 
No relics shall remain. 
There shall the pilgrLin, tempest-torn, 

When on the lightning flash destruction rides, 
In vain for shelter seek. 

O'er ruin'd palaces the fox shall roam; 
Amid the desert halls. 
Where once was spread the feast. 
Where once was heard the song. 
Now shall the wild wolf's howl resound, 

Now build the bird obscene her secret nest. 


Yet, from the stomi of war reserv'd, 
With added strength Jerusalem shall rise. 

The city of yom- God ! 

To guard her favour'd tow'rs 
Shall Heaven protecting spread th' immortal dnchl: 

Her trees with honey ooze. 

Her rivers flow with milk. 
There, Israel, shall the fig-tree Lend 

To you its laden boughs; 
There shall the cluster'! vine Cicpaud 

Its wildly-wanton arms. 

O'er Moses' claj-ey corse 
Drop ye the grateful tear, 
And hide his relics in the narrow house. 

O'er Jordan then rush for the prize, 
■ S])read terror o'er Canaan afar. 
And triumphantly fight for the Lord. 


Sons of my age, attend; 
Come round the bed of death, 
Ere j-(!t his cold damp dews 
Extinguish life's weak flame. 

For Mattathias* arm no more 
Shall scatter terror o'er the host 

Of Israel's foes. 
Now triumphant pride disdainful 

Lilts elate his royal head; 
Lawless might and rufiian rapine 

Stalk o'er Israel uncontroU'd. 

Jehovah hides his face, 
And stern destruction shakes the spear; 
Wide-wasting vengeance pours the show'r of death— 

Jehovah hides Ids face. 

•Mattathias one of the race of priests, opposed the persecution ol 
Antiochus Lpiphanes, and fia.linghis death approaching, assembled liie 
hve sons, and e.vhorted them to continue the defence of the covenant 
of tlieir ancestors. 


Now, then, my sons, be firm; 

Be like the miglity rouk, 

A,!J:ainst wliose fool the waves 

For ever dash in vain. 
Now, then, in your GoJ confiding, 
Litt the sword, and break the shield: 
Look upon your <j;reat forefathers, 

Call each long-past deed to view; 

Let remeinbrance fire your souls — • 

Lift the sword, and break the shield. 

On Moriah mount is laid 
The father's only child ! 
DoAvn Abraham's aged cheek 
EoU'd the paternal tear; 
The big sob spoke his grief, 
And nature rived his heart, but rived in vain — 
For faith prevail'd. 
He rear'd the pile, 
He bound the silent child; 
The child whose silence spoke 
Most moving eloquence. 
Nor did not Abraham feel 
The father's mighty grief, 
Nor paint the wretched mother's woe-fraught cries 

Nor did he not perceive 
The deadly blow more deep would rive his heart: 
Yet faith prevail'd — 
He lifts the knife of sacrifice ! 
Jehovah saw and saved. 

O'er Joseph's robe, bodied with guileful bloodj 

The aged patriarch wept: 

He rear'd the fancied tomb. 

And tore his hoary locks, 
Yet bow'd resigned to Heaven's high will. 

Meantime, in foreign land, 

Joseph forgot not God. 
Vice, her tinsel charms displaying. 
Vainly sought to melt his mind ; 
Vainly plann'd the wile deceitful, / 

Seeking soft to soothe the soul, 

To soothe the soul to sin. 

He saw the languid eye. 

The breast that heav'd with lovo; 


Wliite as the new-fallen snow, 

UnchiU'd by modesty. 

Her hot grasp seiz'd his arms: 
He fled— 
And wlipn seducing pleasure to his lips 

Held forth the honey'd draught. 

He dash'd the poison down. 
Nor Heaven, all-just, withlield relief: 

He mark'd the lather's woe. 

He lov'd the virtuous child; 
And Joseph clos'd, in peace, the patriarch's eyes. 

Hai'k ! the hurtling din of battle ! 
Clanging shields and biting falchions 
Eend the air with fcwful terror. 

Joshua leads the war: 
His voice controls the orbs of heaven I 
The sun stood still, 
The moon obedient held her chariot back ; 

Then fell the royal power. 
To Makkedah's dark cave the monarchs fled; 
Upon the fatal tree, 
They wave with every wind. 
Eound Jericho was borne the mystic ark. 
Was blown the blairing blast; 
Proud on the blaiiing blast 
Triumphant ruin rode. 
From their foundations hurl'd, 
The mighty bulwarks load the ground. 

By prodigies annonnc'd, ere yet 

Eank'd in existence, roll, 
Manoah's offspring tow'rs in giant strength: 
His crisp locks wave amid the wind. 
His crisped air of strength. 
On rushes Philistia's host. 
They environ the waiTior unarm'd; 
He grasps the jaw-bone in his hand. 
He levels their thousands in death. 

Fatigued with deeds of death. 

The victor's limbs relax, 

His parch'd mouth gapes -with thirst; 

Heaven saw and sent relief, 
And from the wondrous weapon flow'd the spring. 


"By Cheritli's liidden sti-eam recluse, 
The i'uithful j^rophet la_y; 
lie drank the running hrooh, 
The ravens brought the due supply. 
Firm in the path of faith 
Through life Elijah trod. 
TVor through the narrow portals of the grave 
He past to realms of bliss; 
For ravish'd in the car of flames. 
He fled the gate of death; 
Thus mortal rapt to immortality. 

High from his lofly throne 

Tlie impious tj^rant cries, 

" Fall down, ye men of earth, 
Revere the image of your King and God." 
Faith stood firm. 

" Heap the fierce furnace high," 

(The angry despot cries) 
" Fan the red flames till the hot fm-nace palea, 

Sickening itself with heat." 
The fire flames fierce ! 

Amid the pallid flames 

The faitliful friends are hurl'd ! 

But blasted fall the slaves, 

The slaves of tjTannj'^: 
God stretch'd the robe of preservation forth, 

And mantled o'er his sons. 

Amid the lions hurl'd, 
In conscious faith serene the prophet lay. 

Nor Daniel knew to fear. 
Nor did his pale limbs quiver with affright; 

He dar'd for God to die. 
And Heaven, for ever good, preserv'd the seer; 

The gaunt beasts, famine-faU'n, 
Creep at his feet, and suppliant lick liis hand. 

Sons of my age, look back; 

Call up the shadowy scenes 

Of ages now no more: 
For never, since yon font of light 

First shed the new-born stream. 
For never, since the breath of life 


_ Breath'd tlirougli the realms of spact,. 
Has virtue trusted in her God in vain. 
Amid the storm serene she goes, 
Nor heeds black malice' sharpest shafts, 

Nor envy's venom'd tooth; 
The warring winds roar round her h^ad, 
Nor knows the constant maid to fear. 

But lifts her looks to God. 
Not 'til the sun, for ever qucnch'd, 

In darkness cease to shine; 
'Til nature feel no more tlie breath 

Of life pervade her frame : 

'Til time himself expir'd 

Sink in eternity, 
Shall faith be firm in vain. 

Now then, indeed, be men. 

Grasp firm the shield of faith. 

Lift high tlie sword of hope, 
Kor fear yon haughty tjTant's impious vauntsj 

To-day elate he stalks. 

Lifts his tiared brows, 

Self-deemed a more than man: 

To-moiTow, fall'n in dust. 

Food for the worm corrupt, 
Sunk to primeval nothing, low ho lies. 
And, sometLiries, when your lips repeat the deeds 

Your forefathers achiev'd. 
Of me the meanest think, not wholly mean: 

Let Mattatliias' name 

Full-fill your souls witli fire, 

Recal that hour to view 

"WHien this indignant hand 
Drench'd deep my dagger in apostate blood. 

Even at the altar's foot, 

The tyi-ant cliief I stabb'd, 

I hmTd the altar down. 

Nor then, in sacred sloth subdued. 
Upon the sabbath fell we unreveng'd. 
We serv'd our God in fight, 
We sacrific'd his foes, 
We pray'd amid the war. 
Then through these limbs burnt high 


Indignant valour's flame; 
Tlieu glow'd the lamp of life. 
Now pale and wavering as the dews of death, 
Slow quench its fading Hght. 

God of my fathers, thou hast seen my life 

Worn in defence of thee; 
Thou hast beheld me &m in danger's face, 

Maintain thy holy cause, 

Amid em])attled hosts 

Defend thy mystic rites. 

Now to the unknown world, 

XJnchill'd by fear, I sink; 
And whilst my chiily limbs grow faiiit. 
Whilst death's dull mists bedim my eye, 

Hope lifts my soul to thes. 



The lily cheek, the " purple light of love," 
The liquid lustre of the melting eye — 
Mary ! of these the poet sung, for these 
Did woman triumph. With no angry frown 
View this degrading conquest ! At that age 
No Maid of Arc had snatched from coward man 
The avenging sword of fi-eedom; woman-kind 
Recorded then no Roland's mai-tji'domj 
No Corde's angel and avenging arm 
Had sanctified again the miu'derer's name, 
As erst when Caesar perished : yet some strains 
May even adorn this theme, befitting me 
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard. 

The subject from the third and fourth chapters of the Book of Esdraa 

Glad as the weaiy traveller, tempest-tost. 
To reach secure at length his native coast, 
"VVho wandering long o'er distant lands has sped. 
The night-blast wildly howling round his head, 
Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm 
Of the bleak winter pai-ch his shivering form; 
The journey o'er, and every peiil past, 
Beholds his little cottage-home at last; 
And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow. 
Feels his full eyes vnth. transport overflow; 
So fr-om the scene where death and angaiish rei,gn. 
And vice and folly di'endi with blood the plain. 


Joyful I turn, to sing how woman's praise 
Availed again Jerusalem to raise, 
Called forth the sanction of the despot's nod. 
And freed the nation hest beloved of God. 

Darms gives the feast: to Persia's court, 
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort: 
Attending satraps swell the prince's pride. 
And vanquish'd monarelis grace their confiueror's sid( 
No more the warrior wears the garb of war. 
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scj'tlied carj 
No more Judaea's sons dejected go. 
And hang the head, and heave the sigh of wo. 
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train. 
From wnere Orontcs foams along the plain. 
From where Ciioaspes rolls his royal waves, 
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves. 
Thy daughters, Babylon, to grace the feast 
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest; 
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair. 
They tinge the cheek which nature formed so fair. 
Learn the sofl} step, the soul-subduing glance, 
I\Ielt in the song, and swim adown the dance. 
Exalted on the monarch's golden throne, 
In royal state the fair Apame shone; 
Her ibi'm of majesty, her eyes of fire. 
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire. 
The admiring multitude her charms adore, 
And own her worthy of the crown she wore. 

Now on his coucli reclined Darius lay. 
Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day; 
Without Judsea's watchfid sons await, 
To guard the sleeping pageant of the state. 
Three j^ouths were these of Judah's royal race, 
Three youths whom nature dowered with every gr;K!&. 
To each the form of symmetry she gave. 
And haughty genius c\irsed each favourite slave; 
Thes3 filled the cup, around the monarch kept. 
Served as he spake, and guarded whilst he siei>t. 

Yet oft for Salem's hallowed towers laid low 
The sii,h would heave, the unbidden tear would flow; 


And when the dull and v/earying round of Power 
Allowed Zorobabel one vacant houi". 
He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam, 
And stretch tlie gaze towards his distant home; 
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks r^clmed, 
Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind. 

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide theii- hght. 
And social converse cheers the livelong night. 
Thus spake Zorobabel: " Too long in vain 
For Zion desolate her sons complain; 
In anguish worn the joyless yetu'S lag slow, 
And these proud conquerors mock their captive's woe. 
Whilst Cyrus triumphed here in victor state 
A brighter prospect cheered our exiled fate, 
Oui- sacred walls again he bade us raise. 
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise. 
Quickly these fond hopes faded fi-om our eyes. 
As the fi'ail sun that gilds the wintry skies. 
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain, 
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again. 

" Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign, 
\Ve vaiidy pleaded here, and wept in vain. 
Now when Darius, chief of mild command. 
Bids joy and pleasm-e fill the festive land, 
Still shall we di'oop the head in sullen grief. 
And, sternlj' silent, shmi to seek relief? 
What if amid the monarch's mirthful throng 
Our hai-ps should echo to the cheerful song ? 

" Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied, 
" Now then let all our tuneful skill be tried. 
While the gay courtiers quaff the smiling bowl. 
And wine's strong fumes inspire the maddened soul 
Wliere all around is merriment, be mine 
To strike the lute, and praise the power of wine." 

" And while," his fiiend replied, " in state aloue, 
Lord of the earth, Darius fills the thi'one. 
Be yours the mighty power of wine to sing, 
My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's king." 


To them Zorobabel: " On themes like these 
Seek ye the monarch of mankind to please: 
To wine superior, or to power's strong arms, 
Ee mine to sing resistless woman's charms. 
To him victorious in the rival lays 
Shall just Darius give the meed of praise; 
The purple robe his honoured frame shall fold. 
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold; 
A golden couch support his bed of rest, 
The chain of honour grace his favoured breast; 
His the soft turban, his the car's array. 
O'er Babylon's high wall to wheel its way. 
And for his wisdom seated on the throne. 
For the king's cousin shall the bard be known." 

Intent they meditate the fixture lay, 
And watch impatient for the dawn of day. 
The morn rose clear, and shi-ill were heard the flut©. 
The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute; 
To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort, 
Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court. 

High on his throne Darius towered in pi-ide. 
The fair Apame graced the sovereign's side; 
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown 
Placed on her brow the monarch's sacred crown. 
In transport o'er her fauitness fonn he bends. 
Loves every look, and every act commends. 

And now Darius bids the herald call 

Judsea's bard to grace the thronging hall. 

Husht is each sound — the attending crowd are muta. 

The Hebrew lightly strikes the cheerful lute : 

When the traveller on his way. 

Who has toiled the livelong day. 

Feels around on every side 

The chilly mists of eventide. 

Fatigued and faint his weary mind 

Eecurs to all he leaves behind; 

He thinks upon the well-trimmed hearth. 

The evening hour of social mirth, 

And her who at departing day 

Weeps for her husband far away ; 


^ve to liim the flowing bowl. 
Bid it renovate hia soul; 
Then shall sorrow sink to sleep. 
And he who wept no more shall weep; 
For his care-clouded brow shall clear. 
And his glad eye shall sparkle through the tear. 

When the poor man heart-opprest 
Betakes him to his evening rest, 
And worn with labour thinks in sorrow 
Of the labour of to-morrow; 
When sadly musing on his lot 
He hies him to his joyless cot, 
And loathes to meet his children there. 
The rivals for liis scanty fare; 
give to him the flowing bowl. 
Bid it renovate his soul ; 
The generous juice with magic power 
Shall cheat with happiness the hour. 
And with each warm afi'ection fill 
The heart by want and wretchedness made chilL 

When, at the dim close of day. 
The captive loves alone to stray 
Along the haunts recluse and rude 
Of sorrow and of solitude; 
When he sits with moveless eye 
To mark the lingering radiance die, 
And lets distempered fancy roam 
Amid the ruins of his home, — 
O give to him the flowing bowl. 
Bid it renovate his soul; 
The bowl shall better thoughts bestow. 
And lull to rest his wakeful woe, 
And joy shall bless the evening hour. 
And make the captive fortime's conqueror. 

When the wearying cares of state 
Oppress the monarch with their weight, 
When from his pomp retii-ed alone 
He feels the duties of the throne. 
Feels that the multitude below 
Depend on him for weal or woe; 


When his powerful will may bless 
A realm mth peace and happiness. 
Or with desolating breath 
Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death: 
give to him the flowing bowl. 
Bid it humanize his soul; 
He shall not feel the empire's Aveight, 
lie shall not feel the cares of state, 
The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, 
And nations live and prosper from his smQe. 

Husht was the lute, tlie Hebrew ceased the song, 
Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng; 
Each tongue the liberal words of praise repaid. 
On every cheek a smUe applauding played; 
The rival bard approached, he struck the string. 
And pom-ed the loftier song to Persia's king. 

Why should the wearying cares of state 

Oppress the monarch with their weight ? 

Alike to him if peace shall bless 

The multitude with happiness; 
Alike to him if phrensied war 

Cai-eers triumphant on the embattled plain 

And rolling on o'er mji'iads slain, 
With gore and wounds shall clog liis scj'thed car. 

"Wliat though the tempest rage ! no sound 
Of the deep tliunder shakes his distant throne, 

And the red flash that spreads destruction round, 
Eeflects a glorious splendour on the crown. 

Where is the man who, with ennobling pride, 
Beholds not his own nature ? where is he 

Who without awe can see 
The mysteries of the human mind, 

The miniature of Deity ? 
For man the vernal clouds descending 

Shower doAvn their fertilizing rain. 
For man the ripened harvest bending 
Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. 

He spreads the sail on high. 
The rude gale wafts him o'er the main; 
For him the winds of heaven subservient blow. 

Earth teems for him, for him the -waters flow, 

He thinks, and wiUs, and acts, a Deity below ! 


Where is the king who, with elating pride, 

Sees not this man — this godlike man his slave ? 
Mean are the mighty hy the monarch's side, 

Alike the wise, alike the brave 

With timid step and pale, advance, 

And tremble at the royal glance; 

Suspended millions watch his breath 
Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death. 

Why goes the peasant from that little cot, 
Where peace and love have blest his humble life? 

In vain his agonizing v;ife 

With tears bedews her husband's face. 
And clasps him in a long and last embrace ; 

In vain his children round his bosom creep, 

And weep to see their mother weep, 
Fettering their father with their little arms. 

What are to him the war's alarms ? 

What are to him the distant foes ? 

He at the earliest dawn of day 

To daily labour went his way; 

And when he saw the svm decline. 

He sat in peace beneath his vine. 
The king commands, the peasant goes. 
From all he loved on earth he flies. 
And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, and dies. 

Wliat though yon city's castled wall 

Cast o'er the darkened plain its crested shade ? 
What though their priests in earnest terror call 

On all their host of gods to aid ? 
Yain is the bulwark, vain the tower; 

In vain her gallant youths expose 

Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes. 
In vain at that tremendous hour. 
Clasped in the savage soldier's reeking arms, 

Shrieks to tame Heaven the violated maid. 
By the rude hand of ruin scattered round 
riieir moss-grown towers shall spread the desert ground. 

Low shall the mouldering palace lie, 

Amid the princely halls the grass wave high. 
And through the shattered roof descend the inclement sky. 


Gay o'er the embattled plain 

Moves yonder warrior train. 
Their banners wanton on the morning gale J 

FuU on their bucklers beams the rising ray, 

Their glittering helms give glories to the day, 
The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale: 
Far reaches as the aching eye can strain 

The splendid horror of their wide array. 

Ah ! not in vain expectant, o'er 

Their glorious pomp the vtdtures soar ! 

Amid the conqueror's palace high 

Shall sound the song of victory: 
Long after jom-neying o'er the plain 

The traveller shall with startled eye 
See thek' white bones then blanched by many a winter skj. 

Lord of the earth ! we wiU not raise 

The temple to thy bounded praise. 

For thee no victim need exphe. 

For thee no altar blaze with hallowed fire ! 

The burning city flames for thee — 

Thine altar is the field of victory I 

Thy sacred Majesty to bless 
Man a self-oliered victim fi'eely flies. 

To thee he sacrifices happiness 
And peace, and love's endearing ties. 
To thee a slave he lives, to thee a slave he dies. 

Husht was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing, 
The shout rushed forth — For ever live the king ! 
Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree 
Pronomiced Achaia once again was fi-ee; 
Assembled Greece em-apt with fond belief 
Keai'd the false boon, and blessed the villain chief; 
Each breast with freedom's holy ardour glows. 
From every voice the ci-y of rapture rose ; 
Their thundering clamours burst the astonished sky, 
And bu'ds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die. 
Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring. 
And the high hall re-echoed — Live the Idng ! 
The mutes bowed reverent down before then- lord. 
The assembled satraps envied and adored, 
Joy sparkled in the monarch's conscious eyes. 
And liis pleased pride already doomed the prize. 


Silent they saw Zorobabel advance: 
Quick on Apame shot his timid glance. 
With downward eye he paused a moment mute, 
And with light finger touched the softer lute. 
Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause. 
And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause. 

Why is the warrior's cheek so red ? 
Why downward drops his musing head ? 
"WTiy that slow step, that faint advance. 
That keen yet quick retreating glance P 
That crested hand in war towered high. 
No backward glance disgraced that eye. 
No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread 
When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead: 
Strange tumult now his bosom moves — 
The warrior fears because he loves. 

Why does the youth delight to rove 
Amid the dark and lonely grove ? 
Why in the throng where aU. are gay, 

His wandering eye with meanmg fraught. 

Sits he alone in sUent thought P 

Silent he sits; for far away 

His passioned soul delights to stray; 

Eecluse he roves, and strives to shun 

All human-kind because he loves but One I 

Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest; 
But not because the sparkling bowl 
To rapture lifts thy wakened souL 

But not because of power possest. 

Not that the nations di-ead thy nod, 

And piinces reverence thee their eai-thly God, 

Even on a monarch's solitude 

Care, the black spectre, will intrude. 

The bowl brief pleasure can bestow. 

The purple cannot shield from woe. 

But, King of Persia, thou art blest, 
Por Heaven, who raised thee thus the world abouo, 
Has made thee happy in Apame's love ! 

Oh ! I have seen his fond looks trace 
Each angel feature of her face, 


Kove o'er her form with eager eye, 
And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh. 
Lo ! from his brow with mimic fi'own 
Apame takes the sacred crown ; 
Her faultless form, her lovely face 
Add to the diadem new grace: 
And subject to a woman's laws 
Darius sees and smiles applause ! 

He ceased, and silent still remained the throng. 
Whilst rapt attention owned the power of song. 
Then loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow. 
Prom every voice the thundering plaudits flow; 
Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes 
Glanced on the king, and woman won the prize. 

Now silent sat the expectant crowd: Alone 
The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne; 
With deeper hue his cheek distempered glows. 
With statelier stature loftier now he rose; 
Heavenward he gazed, regai-dless of the throng, 
And poured with awful voice sublimer song. 

Ancient of Days ! Eternal Truth ! one hymn, 
One holier strain the bard shall raise to thee. 
Thee powerful ! thee benevolent ! thee just! 
Friend ! Father ! all in all ! the vine's rich blood. 
The monarch's might, and women's conquering charms 
These shall we praise alone ! ye wlio sit 
Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour 
The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews. 
Whose rains, whose sun, matured the growing fruit. 
Creator and Preserver ! reverence Him, 
O Thou, who from Thy throne dispensest life 
And death, for He has delegated power. 
And thou shalt one iay, at the throne of God, 
liender most strict account ! ye who gaze 
Enrapt on beauty's fascinating form. 
Gaze on with love, and loving beauty, learn 
To shun abhorrent all the mental eye 
Beholds deformed and foul; for so shall love 
Climb to the source of virtue. God of truth i 
All-just ! all-mighty ! I should ill deserve 
Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song. 


If, SO content with * eav-deep melodiea 

To please all profitless, I did not pour 

Severer strains; of truth — eternal truth. 

Unchanging justice, universal love. 

Such strains awake the sonl to loftiest thonghtj 

Such strains the blessed spirits of the good 

Waft, grateful incense ! to the halls of Heaven, 

The d3-ing notes still murmured on the string. 
When from his throne arose the raptured king. 
About to speak he stood, and waved his hand. 
And all expectant sat the obedient band. 

Then just and generous, thus the monarch cries, 

Ee thine, Zorobabel, the well-earned prize. 

The puq^le robe of state thy fomi shall fold. 

The beverage sparkle in thy cup of gold; 

The golden couch, the car, and honoured chain, 

llequite the merits of thy favoured strain. 

And raised supreme the ennobled race among, 

Be called my cousin, for the victor song. 

Nor these alone the victor song shall bless. 

Ask v.'hat thou wilt, and what thou wilt possess." 

"Fallen is Jerusalem!" the Hebrew ci-ies. 
And patinot anguish fills his streaming eyes, 
" Hm'led to the earth, by rapine's vengelul rod. 
Polluted lies the temple of our God. 
Far in a foreign land, her sons remain. 
Hear the keen taunt, and drag the captive cliainj 
In fruitless woe thoj^ wear the wearying 3^ears, 
And steep the bread of bitterness in tears. 
O monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men. 
Restore us to those ruined walls again ! 
Allow our race to rear that sacred dome. 
To live in liberty, and die at home." 

So spake Zorobabel. — Thus woman's praise 
Availed again Jerusalem to raise. 
Called forth the sanction of the despot's nodj 
And freed the nation best beloved of God. 

• This expression is from Owen Felltliam. 


I am innocent of this blood, see te to rrl 


Hold your mad hands ! for ever on yonr plain 
Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blocd r 
For ever must your Niger's tainted flood 

Eoll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain ? 

Hold your mad hands ! what demon prompts to rear 
The arm of slaughter ? on your savage shoi e 
Can hell-sprung glory claim the feast of gore, 

With laurels watered by the widow's tear 

Wreathing his helmet crown ? lift high the spear ! 
And like the desolating whirlwind's sweep, 
Plunge ye yon bark of anguish in the deep; 

For the pale fiend cold-hearted Commerce there 

Breathes his gold-gendered pestilence afar. 
And calls, to share the prey, his kindred demon War. 


Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hairj 

And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries ? 

Before the gale the laden vessel flies ; 
The heavens all-favouring snule, the breeze is fair; 
Hark to the clamours of the exulting crew; 

Hark how their thunders mock the patient skies ; 

Why dost thou shriek, and strain thy red-swola eyes, 
As the white sail dim lessens from thy view ? 
Go pine in want, and anguish, and despair. 


There is no mercy found in linman-kind — 
Go, widow, to thy gi'ave, and rest thee there ! 

]iut may the God of justice bid the wind 
Wlielm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave. 
And bless with liberty and death the slave ! 


Oh, he is worn with toil ! the big drops run 

Down his dark cheek; hold — hold thy merciless hand, 
Pale tyrant ! for beneath thy hard command 

O'erwearied nature sinks. The scorching sun. 

As pitiless as proud prosperity. 

Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lieS;, 
Ai-raigning with his looks the patient skies. 

While that inhuman trader lifts on high 

The mangling scourge. ye who at your ease 

Sip the blood-sweetened beverage ! thoughts like tliese 

Haply ye scorn : I thank thee, gracious God, 
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow 

Of indignation, when beneath the rod 
A sable brother writhes in silent woe. 


'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep 

As undisturbed as justice ! but no more 

The wretched slave as on his native shore, 
Rests on his reedy couch: he wakes to weep ! 
Though through the toil and anguish of the day 

No tear escaped him, not one suffering groar. 

Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone 
In bitterness; thinking that far away. 
Though the gay Negroes join the midnight song. 

Though merriment resounds on Nigor's sbjre. 
She whom he loves, far fi'om the cheerful throng 

Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door 
With dim-grown eye, silent and woe-begone. 

And weeps for him who wiU retui'n no more. 


Dip then the Negro rear at last the sword 

Of vengeance? drenched he deep its thirsty Llade 
In the hard heart of liis tyrannic lord ? 

Oh! who shall blame him? through the midnight shade 
Still o'er his tortured memory rushed the thought 
Of every past delight; his native grove, 
Friendship's best joys, and liberty and love. 
All lost for ever ! then remembrance wrought 
His soul to madness: round his restless bed 

Freedom's pale spectre stallced, with a stern smile 
Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while 
She shook her chains and hung her sullen head: 
No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath, 
I^ut sweetens with revenge the draught of death. 


HiGii in the air exposed the slave is liung, 

To all the birds of heaven their living iood ! 
He groans not, though awaked by that tierce sun, 
New torturers live to drink their parent blood! 
He gi'oans not, though thf gorging vulture tear 
The quivering tibre ! Hither gaze, O ye 
Who tore this man from peace and liberty ! 
Gaze hither, ye who weigh with scrupulous care 
The right and prudent; for beyond the grave 
There is another world ! and call to mind, 
Ere your decrees proclaim to all mankind, 
]\Turder is legalized, tiiat there the slave. 
Before the Eternal, " thunder-tongued shall plead 
Against the deep damnation of your deed." 



O Tiiou, who from the mountain's height 

Rollest down thy clouds with all their weight 
Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide; 

Or o'er the dark sepulchral plain, 
Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride. 

The mistress of the main; 
Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry! 

Not always shouldst thou luve to brood 

Stern o'er the desert solitude, 
Where seas of sand toss their hot surges highs 

Nor, Genius, should the midnight song 
Detain thee in some milder mood 

The palmy plams among. 
Where Gambia to the torches' light 
Flows radiant through the awakened night. 
Ah linger not to heai' the song ! 
Genius, avenge thy children's wrong ! 
The demon Commerce on your shore 

Pours all the horrors of his train : 
And hark, where from the field of gore 

Howls the hyena o'er the slain ; 
Lo ! where the ilaming village fires the skiee I 
Avenging Pov/er, awake ! arise ! 

Arise, thy children's Avi'ongs redress ! 

Ah heed the mother's wretchedness, 

^Vlien in the hot infectious air, 

O'er her sick babe she bows opprest— 

All hear her when the Christians tear 
The drooping infant from her breasts 
Whelmed in the waters he shall rest I 

Hear thou the wretched mother's cries, 

A venging Power, awake I arise ! 

By the rank infected air 
That taints those dungeons of despair. 
By those who there imprisoned die. 
Where the black herd promiscuous lie 


By the scourges blackened o'er, 
And stiff and hard with human gore. 
By every groan of deep distress, 
By every cui'se of wretchedness, 
By all the train of crimes that flow 
Prom the liopelessness of woe, 
By every di'op of blood bespUt, 
By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt, 
Awalce ! arise ! avenge ! 

And thou hast heard : and o'er their blood-fed plains 

Swept thine avenging hurricanes ; 

And bade thy storms, with whirlwind roar. 

Dash their proud navies on the shore; 

And where then- armies claimed the fight, 

Withered the warrior's might; 

And o'er the unholy host, with baneful breath, 

There, Genius, thou hast breathed the gales of death. 


In September, 1798, a dissenting minister of Bristol discovered a sailor 
in the neighbourhood of that city, groaning and praying in a hovel. 
The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in 
the annexed ballad, -without the slightest addition or alteration. 
By presenting it as a poem, the story is made more public; and such 
stories ought to be made as public as possible. 

He stopt; ... it surely was a groan 

That from the hovel came ! 
He stopt and listened anxiously. 

Again it sounds the same. 

Frcm yonder hovel sure it came, . . . 

And now he hastens there. 
And thence he hears the name of Christ 

Amid a broken prayer. 


And entering in the outhouse then, 

A sailor there he sees, 
His hands were lifted up to Heaven, 

And he was on his knees. 

Nor did the sailor so intent 

His entering footsteps heed, 
But now the Lord's prayer said, and now 

His half-forgotten creed. 

And often on his Saviour call'd 

With many a bitter groan, 
And iu such anguish as could spring 

From deepest guilt alone. 

He ask'd the miserable man 

Why he was kneeling there. 
And what the crime had been that caus'-i 

The anguish of his prayer. 

Oh, I have done a cursed thing ! 

It haunts me night and day. 
And I have sought this lonely place 

Here undistui-b'd to I3ray. 

I have no place to pray on board, 

So I came here alone, 
That I might freely kneel and pray. 

And call on Christ and groan. 

If to the main-mast head I go. 

The wicked one is there. 
Prom place to place, from rope to rope^ 

He follows everywhere. 

I shut my eyes, ... it matters not , . , 

Still still the same I see, ... 
And when I lie me down at night; 

'Tis always day with me. 

He follows, follows everywhere. 

And every place is hell ! 
God . . . and I must go with him 

In endless fire to dwell. 


He follows, follows everywhere. 

He's still above . . . below, 
Oil tell me where to fly from him ! 

Oh tell me where to go ! 

But tell me, quoth the stranger then, 
What tliis thy crime hath been. 

So haply I may comfort give 
To one that grieves for sin. 

Oh I have done a cursed deed ! 

The wretched man replies. 
And night and day, and evcryvvhero, 

'Tis still before my eyes. 

I sail'd on board a Guinea-man 

And to the slave-coast went; 
Vv^ould that the sea had swallowed :ne 

Wlien I was innocent! 

And we took in our cargo there. 

Three hundred negro slaves. 
And wo sail'd homeward merrily 

Over the ocean waves. 

But some were sulky of the slaves 
And would not touch their meat. 

So therefore we were forced by tlueata 
And blows to make them eat. 

One woman, sulkier than the rest, 
Would still refuse her food, . . . 

Jesus God ! I hear her cries . . . 
I see her in her blood ! 

The captain made me tie her up, 

And flog while he stood by, _ 
And then he curs'd me if I staid 

My hand to hear her cry. 

She groan'd, she shriek'd ... I could not spare, 
For the captain he stood by . , . 

Dear God ! that I might rest one night 
From that poor woman's cry. 


She twisted fi-om the blows — her blood, 

Her mangled flesh I see — 
Aiid still the captain would not spare — 

Oh, he was worse than me ! 

She could not be more glad than I 

When she was taken down, 
A blessed minute ! 'twas the last 

That I have ever known ! 

I did not close my eyes all night 

Thmking what I had done; 
I heard her groans, and they grew faint. 

About the rising sun. 

She groan'd and groan'd, but her groans grev/ 

Fainter at morning tide. 
Fainter and fainter still they came, 

Till at the noon she died. 

They flung her overboard; — poor wretch ! 

She rested from her pain, — 
But when — Christ ! O blessed God ! 

Sli;dl I have rest again ! 

I saw the sea close over her, 

Yet she is stiU in sight ; 
I see her twisting every^vhere 

I see her daj' and night. 

Go Vv'here I will, do what I can. 

The wicked one I see- 
Dear Christ, have mercy on my scoi,— 

i) God, deliver me! 



Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore. 

Once more to daily toil, once more to weai 
The livery of shame, once more to search 
With miserable task this savage shore I 
Oh Thou, who mountest so triumphantly 
In yonder heaven, beginning thy career 
Of glory, Oh thou blessed Sun ! thy beam^s 
Fall on me with the same benignant light 
Here, at the fm-thest limits of the world. 
And blasted as I am with infamy. 
As when in better j-ears poor Elinor 
Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimmed 
By guilt and sorrow, and the opening mom 
Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace. 
In other occupation then I trod 
The beach at eve; and then, when I beheld 
The billows as they rolled before the storm 
Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul 
Slirunk at the perils of the boundless deep, 
And heaved a sigh for sufferuig mariners. 
Ah ! little thinking I myself was doomed 
To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, 
An outcast, unbeloved and unbewailed. 


Still will thou haunt me, memory ! still present 
The fields of England to my exiled eyes, 
The joys which once were mine ! Even now I see 
The lowly lovely dwelling! even now 
Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls, 
Where fearlessly the red-breasts chirp around 
To ask their morning meal: and where at eve 
I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by, 
And hear his hollow croak, what time he sought 
The church-yard elm, that with its ancient boughs 
FuU-foliaged, half concealed the house of God: 
That holy house, where I so oft have heard 
My father's voice explain the wondrous works 
Of heaven to sinful man. Ah ! little deemed 
His virtuous bosom that his shameless child 
So soon should spurn the lesson ! sink, the slave 
Of vice and infamy! the liii-eling prey 
Of brutal appetite ! At length, worn out 
With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt. 
Should dare dishonesty — yet dread to die ! 

Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, 
Where angry England sends her outcast sons, 
I hail your joyless shores ! My weary bark. 
Long tempest-tost on life's inclement sea. 
Here hails her haven ! welcomes the drear scene. 
The marshy plain, the brier-entangled wood. 
And all the perils of a world unlcnown, — 
For Elinor has nothing new to fear 
Erom fickle fortime ! All her rankling shafts 
Barbed with disgrace, and venomed with disease, 
Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death 
Has lost its terrors to a wretch lilie me. 

Welcome, ye marshy heaths ! ye pathless woods. 

Where the rude native rests his wearied frame. 

Beneath the sheltering shade; where, when the storm, 

As rough and bleak it rolls along the sky. 

Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek 

The di-ipping shelter. Welcome, ye wUd plains 

Unbroken by the plough, undelved by hand 

Of patient rustic ; where, for lowing herds. 

And for the music of the bleating flocks, 

Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note 


Deepening in distance. Welcome, ye rude climes, 

The realm of Natui-e ! For — as yet unknown 

The crimes and comforts of luxiu'ious life — 

Nature benignly gives to all enough, 

Denies to all a superfluity. 

What though the garb of infamy I wear, 

Though day by day along the echoing beach 

I cuU the wave-worn shells; yet day by day 

I cam in honesty my frugal food, 

And lay me down at night to calm repose. 

No more condemned the mercenary tool 

Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart 

With virtue's stifled sigh, to fold my arms 

Round the rank felon, and for daOy bread 

To hug contagion to my poisoned breast; 

On these wild shores repentance' saviour hand 

Shall probe my secret soul; shall cleanse its wounds, 

And fit the faithful penitent for heaven. 


Time, Koon. 


See'st thou not, William, that the scorching sun 
Bj' this time half his daily race has rim ? 
The savage thi'usts his light canoe to shore. 
And hurries homeward with his fishy store. 
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soU, 
To eat our dinner and to rest from toil. 

Agi'eed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows 
A ready medicine for the sick man's woes, 
Forms with its shadowj' boughs a cool retreat 
To shield us from the noontide's sultrj^ heat. 
Ah, Humphrey ! now, upon old England's shore^ 
The weaiy labourer's morning work is o'er: 


The woodman now rests from Ms measured stroke. 
Flings down his axe and sits beneath the oak. 
Savoured with hunger there he eats his food. 
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood. 
To us no cooling streamlet winds its way, 
No joys domestic crown for us the day. 
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear, 
Toil all the day, and all the night despair. 


Ah, William ! labouring up the furrowed ground, 
I used to love the village clock's dull soimd, 
Eejoice to hear my morning toil was done. 
And trudge it homewards when the clock went one. 
'T was ere I turned a soldier and a sinner ! 
Pshaw ! curse this whming — let us fall to dinner. 


I, too, have loved this hour, nor yet forgot 

Each joy domestic of my little cot. 

For at this hour my wife, with watcliful care. 

Was wont each humbler dainty to prepare; 

The keenest sauce by hunger was supplied, 

And my poor children prattled at my side. 

Methinks I see the old oak table spread, 

The clean white trencher and the good brown bread. 

The cheese my daily food which Maiy made, 

For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade: 

The jug of cider — cider I could make — 

And then the knives — I won 'em at the wake. 

Another has them now ! I, toiling here. 

Look backward like a child, and drop a tear. 


I love a dismal story: tell me thine. 
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine. 
I, too, my friend, can tell a piteous' story — 
When I turned hero how I pm-chased glory. 


But, Humphi-ey, sure thou never canst have kno'jm 
The comforts of a little home thine own: 
A home so snug, so cheerful, too, as mine; 
'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine; 


For there Kiug Chai-les's golden rules were seen, 

And there— God bless 'em both — the king and queen. 

The pewter plates, our garnished chimney's grace. 

So nicely scoured, you might have seen your face; 

And over all, to I'righten thieves, was hung, 

Well cleaned although but seldom used, my gun. 

Ah ! that damned gun ! I took it dowTi one morn — 

A desperate deal of harm they did my corn ! 

Our testy squire too loved to save the breed. 

So covey upon covey ate my seed. 

I marked the mischievous rogues, and took my aim; 

I fired, they fell, and — up the keeper came. 

That cursed morning brought on my midoing; 

I went to prison, and my larm to ruin. 

Poor Mary ! for her grave the parish paid, 

No tombstone tells where her cold corpse is laid ! 

My children — my dear boys — 


Come — grief is dry.— 
You to your dinner — to my story I. 
To you, my friend, who happier daj^s have known, 
And each calm comfort of a home your own, 
This is bad living: I have spent my life 
In hardest toil and unavaihng strii'e, 
And here (from forest ambush safe at least) 
To me this scanty pittance seems a feast. 
I was a plough-bo}^ once; as free from woes 
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose. 
Each evening at return a meal I found; 
And, though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound. 
One Whitsuntide, to go to fair, I drest 
Like a great bumpldn, in my Sunday's best; 
A prunrose posey in my hat I stuck. 
And to the revel went to try my luck. 
From show to show, from booth to booth I stray. 
See, stare, and wonder, all the live-long day. 
A Serjeant to the fair recruiting came. 
Skilled in man-catching, to beat up for game; 
Our booth he entered and sat down bj' me; — 
Methinks even now the very scene I see ! 
The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store, 
The old bhnd fiddler seated next the door, 


'Vhe frothy tankard passing to and fro, 

And the rude rabble round the puppet-show. 

The Serjeant eyed me well — the puuch-bowl comes. 

And as we laughed and drank, up struck tlie di-ums. 

And now he gives a bumper to his wench, 

God save the king, and then— God damn the French ! 

Then tells the story of his last campaign, 

How many wounded and how many slain. 

Flags flying, caimons roaring, dnims a-beating. 

The English marching on, the French retreating,^ 

" Push on — push on, my lads ! they fly before ye, 

March on to riches, happiness and glory !" 

At fu'st I wondered, by degrees grew bolder. 

Then cried — " 'Tis a fine thmg to be a soldier !" 

" Aye, Humphrey !" says the serjeant— " that's your name ?" 

'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame ! 

Marchto tlie field — Imock out a mounseer's brains. 

And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains. 

Come, Humphrey, come, thou art a lad of spirit; 

Else to a halbert — as I did — by merit ! 

Wouldst thou believe it ? eveu I was once 

As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce; 

But courage raised me to iny rank. How now, boy ! 

Shall hero Humplii-ey still be Numps the plough-boy? 

A^proper-shaped young fellow ! tall and straight ! 

Why, thou wert made for glory ! — five feet eight I 

The road to riches is the field of fight, — 

Didst ever see a guinea look so bright ? 

"VVliy, regknentals, Numps, would give thee grace, 

A hatand feather would become that face; 

The girls would crov/d around thee to be kist — 

Dost love a giii ?" " Od zounds !" I cried, " I'll list !" 

So passed the night: anon the morning came. 

And ofl' I set a volunteer for fame. 

" Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up your head. 

Stand easy !" so I did— till almost dead. 

how I longed to tend the plough agam. 

Trudge up the field and whistle o'er the plain. 

When tu-ed and sore amid the piteous throng. 

Hungry and cold and wet I limped along, 

And growing fainter as I passed and colder, 

Cui-sed that ill hour when I became a soldier ! 

In town I found the hom-s more gaily pass, 

Aud time fled swiftly with my gii-1 and glass; 


The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous fair. 

They soon transfen-'d me to the doctor's care; 

The doctor undertook to cure the evil, 

And he almost transferred me to the devil. 

'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story 

Of fighting, fasting, wTetchedness, and glory. 

At last discharged, to England's shores I came. 

Paid for my wounds with want, instead of fame; 

l^'ound my fair friends, and plundered as they bade me. 

Tliey kist me, coaxed me, robbed me, and betrayed mo. 

Tried and condemned, his majesty transports me, 

And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me. 

So ends my dismal and heroic story, 

And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than glory. 


Timr,, Evening. 

'Tis a calm pleasant evening, the light fades away. 
And tlie sun going down has done watcli for the day. 
To my mind, we live vrondi-ous well when transported; 
It is but to work, and we must be supported. 
FiU the can, Dick ! Success here to Botany Bay ! 


Success if you wiU, — but God send me away ! 


You lubberly landsmen don't know when you're well ! 

Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I can tell ! 

The sailor has no place of safety in store — 

From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore ! 

When roguery rules all the rest of the earth, 

God be thanked, in this corner I've got a good berth. 


Talk of hardships ! what these are the sailor don't know; 
'Tis the soldier, ray ti-iend, that's acquainted with woe. 


Long journeys, short halting, hard work, and small pay. 
To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a day ! — 
Thank God ! I'm safe quartered at Botany Bay. 


Ah ! you know but little: I'll wager a pot 
I have suffered more evils than fell to your lot, 
Come, we'll have it all fairly and properly tried. 
Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide. 



Done. 'Tis a wager, and 1 shall be winner; 
Thou wilt go without grog, Sam, to-morrow, at dinner. 


I was trapped by the sergeant's palavering pretences, 
He listed me when I was out of my senses. 
So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow, 
And was drilled to repentance and reason to-morrow. 


I would be a sailor and plough the wide ocean, 

But was soon sick and sad with the billows' commotion; 

So the captain he sent me aloft on the mast. 

And cursed me, and bid me cry there — and hold fast ! 


After marching all day, faint, and hungry, and sore, 
I have lam down at night on the swamps of the moor. 
Unsheltered, and forced by fatigue to remain, 
All chilled by the wind and benumbed by the rain, 


I have rode out the storm when the billows beat high. 
And the red gleaming lightnings flashed through the dark 
When the tempest of night the black sea overcast, [sky; 
Wet and weary I laboured, yet sung to the blast. 


I have marched, trumpets sounding, di-ums beatmg, flao-s 
flying, ° 

Where the music of war da-owned the shrieks of the dying, 


When the shots whizzed ai'ound me all dangers dofied, 
Pushed on when my comrades fell dead at my side; 
Drove the foe from the mouth of the cannon away, 
Fought, conquered, and bled, all for sixpence a day. 

And I, too, friend Samuel ! have heard the shots rattle. 

But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle; 

Though the chain and the grape-shot roll spluitering around, 

With the blood of our messmates though slipper}"^ the ground, 

The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow. 

We heed not our loss so we conquer the foe; 

And the hard battle won, if the prize be not sunk. 

The captain gets rich, and the sailors get di'unk. 


God help the poor soldier vrhen backward he goes 
In disgraceful retreat through a country of foes ! 
No respite from danger by day or by night. 
He is still forced to fly, still o'er taken to fight; 
Every step that he takes he must battle his way. 
He must force his hard meal from the peasant away; 
No rest and no hope, from all succour afar, 
God forgive the poor soldier for going to the war ! 

But what are these dangers to those I havs past 
When the dark billows roared to the roar of the blast; 
When we worked at the pumps, worn with labour and weak, 
And with di-ead still beheld the increase of the leak if 
Sometimes, as we rose on the wave, could our sight 
From the rocks of the shore catch the light-house's light; 
In vain to the beach to assist us they press. 
We fire faster and faster our guns of distress; 
Still, with rage unabating, the wiud and waves roar; 
How the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst o'er ! 
Leap — leap — for she yawns — for she sinks in the wave ! 
Call on God to preserve — for God only can save. 


There's an end of all troubles, however, at last ! 
A.nd when I in the waggon of wounded was cast. 


Wlien mj wounds with the chilly night-wind smarted sore- 

And I thought of the fi-iends I should never see more. 

No hand to relieve — scarce a morsel of bread — 

Sick at heart I have envied the peace of the dead ! 

Left to rot in a jail tOl by treaty set free, 

Old England's white clift's with what joy did I see ! 

I had gained enough glory, some wounds, but no good, 

And was turned on the public to shift how I could. 

Wlien I think what I've suffered, and where I am now, 

I curse him who snared me away from the plougli. 

When I was discharged I went home to my wife. 
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life. 
My wife was industrious ; we earned what we spent, 
And though little we had, were with little content ; 
And whenever I listened, and heard the wind roar, 
I blessed God for my little snug cabin on shore. 
At midnight they seized me, they dragged me away. 
They wounded me sore when I would not obey, 
And because for my country I'd ventured my life, 
I was dragged like a thief from my home and my wife. 
Then the liiir wind of fortune chopped round in my iiice. 
And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace — • 
But all's for the best! — on the world's Avide sea cast, 
I am havened in peace in this corner at last. 


Come, Dick ! we have done — and for judgment we call. 

And in faith I can give you no judgment at all; 

But that as you're now settled, and safe from foul weatherf 

You driiik up your grog and be merry together. 


Time, Nigld. Scene, the Woods. 

WheSe shall I turn me ? whither shall I bend 
My weary way ? thus worn with toil and faint. 
How throug;h the thorny mazes of this wood 
Attain my distant dwelling ? That deep cry 
That rings along the forest, seems to sound 
My parting knell : it is the midnight howl 
Of hungry naonsters prowling for their prey ! 
Again ! save me — save me, gracious Heaven ! 
I am not fit to die. 

Thou coward wretch, 
Wiry heaves thy trembhng heart? why shake thy limba 
Beneath their palsied bm"den ? Is there aught 
So lovely in existence ? Wouldst thou drain 
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life ? 
Stamped with the brand of vice and infamy, 
Why should the villain Frederic shrink from death ? 

Death ! Where the magic in that empty name 
That chills my inmost heart ? Why at the thought 
Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb ? 
There are no terrors to surround the grave. 
When the calm mind, collected in itself, 
Sm-veys that narrow house : the ghastly train 
That haunt the midnight of delirious guilt 
Then vanish. In that home of endless rest 
All sorrows cease. — Would I might slumber there ! 

Why, then, this panting of the fearful heart ? 

This miser love of life, that dreads to lose 

Its cherish'd torment ? Shall the diseased man 

Yield up his members to the sm-geon's knife, ' 

Doubtful of succour, but to ease his frame 

Of fleshly anguish; and the coward wretch. 

Whose idcerated soul can know no help. 

Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid ? 

Oh, it were better far to lay mo down 

Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast 

Seize on his willing victim ! 

If to die 
Were all, it v/ere most sweet to rest my head 
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of death. 


But if the archangel's trump at the last hour 
Startle the ear of death, and wake the soul 
To phrensy !— dreams of infanc}': fit tales 
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes ! 
What if I warred upon the \vorld ? the world 
Had wronged me fu'st: I had endured the ilLs 
Of hard injustice: all this goodly eai'th 
Was but to me one -wild waste wilderness; 
I had no shai'e in nature's patrimony, 
Blasted were all my mornmg hopes of youth. 
Dark disappointment followed on my ways. 
Care was my bosom inmate, and keen want 
Gnawed at my heai't. Eternal one, thou knowest 
How that poor heart, even in the bitter hoiu- 
Of lewdest revelry, has inly yeai'ued 
For peace. 

My Father ! I will call on thee. 
Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer. 
And wait thy righteous will, resigned of soul. 
Oh, thoughts of comfort ! how the afflicted heart. 
Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests 
On you with holy hope ! The hollow howl 
Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods 
Bursts not with terror on the sobered sense. 
If I have sumed against mankind, on them 
Be that past sin — -they made me what I was. 
In these extremest climes can want no more 
Urge to the deeds of dai'kness, and at length 
Here shall 1 rest. What though my hut be poor— 
The rains descend not tlrrough its humble roof: 
Would I were there again ! The night is cold; 
And what if in my wanderings I should rouse 
The savage fi'om his thicket ! 

Hark ! the gun ! 
And lo, the fire of safety ! I shall reach 
My little hut again ! again bj^ toil 
Force from the stubborn eaith my sustenance, 
And quick-eared guilt will never start alarmed 
Amid the weU-earned meal. This felon's garb — • 
Will it not shield me from the winds of heaven ? 
And what could pm-ple more ? Oh, sti'engthen me, 
Eternal One, in this serener state ! 
Cleanse thou mine heart, so penitence and faith 
Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace. 


The following Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance fo any poems 
in oui language. This species of composition has become popular in 
Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the Ger- 
man Idylls given me in conversation. They cannot properly be styled 
imitations, as I am ignorant of that language at present, and have 
never seen any translations or specimens in this Idnd. 

With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityras and 
Corydon do\vn to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. No kind of 
poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is more distinguished 
by the servile dulness of imitated nonsense. Pastoral wiiters, " mora 
silly than their sheep," have like their sheep gone on in the same 
track one after another. Gay stumbled into anew patli. His eclogues 
TTwe the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and did 
not know they were burlesque. Tlie subject would furnish matter for 
a long essay, but this is not the place for it. 

How far poems requiring almost a colloquial plainness of language 
may accord with tlie public taste, I am doubtful. They have bcfu 
subjected to able criticism, and rerised with care. 



Old friend ! why, you seem bent on parish duty. 
Breaking the highway stones; and 'tis a task 
Somewhat too hard, methinks, for age like yours. 

Why, yes ! for one with such a weight of years, 
Upon his back .... I've lived here, man and bey, 
In this same parish, near the age of mau; 
For I am hard upon threescore and ten. 
I can remember, sixty years ago. 
The beautiiying of this mansion here. 
When my late lady's father, the old squire^ 
Came to the estate. 



Wliy, then you have outlasted 
All his improvements, for you see they're making 
Great alterations here. 


Aye, gi-eat indeed ! 
And if my poor old lady could rise up — 
God rest her soul ! — 'twould grieve her to hehold 
The wiciied work is here. 


Thej'-'ve set about ife 
In right good earnest. All the front is gone : 
Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road 
Eound to the door. There were some yew-trees, too, 
Stood in the court. 


Aye, master ! fine old trees I 
My grandfather could just remember baclc 
When they were planted tliere. It was my task 
To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me: 
All straight and smooth, and like a great green wall ! 
My poor old lady many a time would come 
And tell me where to shear; for she had plaj^ed 
In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride 
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say, 
On their new-fangled whimsies ! We shall have 
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs 
And your pert poplar trees. I could as soon 
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down ! 


But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now— 

A fine sm.ooth tm-f, and with a gravel road 

Kound for the carriage — now it suits my taste. 

I like a shrubbery, too, it looks so fresh; 

And then there's some variety about it. 

In spring the lilac and the Gueldi-es rose. 

And the laburnum with its golden flowers 

Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes, 

The bright red berries of the mountain ash, 


Witli firs enougli in winter to look green, 

And sliow that something lives. Sm-e this is better 

Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look 

All the year roimd like winter, and for ever 

Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs 

So chy and bai-e ! 

OLD 31 AN. 

Ah ! so the new squire thinksi 
And pretty work he makes of it. Y^hat 'tis 
To have a stranger come to an old house! 


It seems you know him not ? 


No, sir, not L 
Tliey tell me he's expected daily now; 
But in my lady's time he never came 
But once, for they were very distant kin. 
If he had played about here when a child 
In that fore court, and cat the yew-berries, 
And sate in the porch threading the jessamine flower & 
That fell so thick, he had not had the heart 
To mar all thus. 


Come — come ! all is not wrong. 
Those old dai'k windows — 


They're demolish'd too,— 
As if he could not see tlu'ough casement glass ! 
The very red-breasts that so regular 
Came to my lady for her morning crumbs. 
Wont know the window now ! 


Nay, they were high. 
And then so darken'd up with jessamine, 
Harbouring the vermin. That was a fine tree. 
However. Did it not grow in and line 
The porch P 


All over it: it did one good 
To pass within ten yiu'ds when 'twas in blossozi. 


There was a sweet-brier, too, that grew beside*. 

My lady loved at evening to sit there 

And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet 

And slept in the sun — 'twas an old favourite dog! 

She did not love him less that he was old 

And feeble, and he always had a place 

By the fne-side, and when he died at last 

She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. 

Ah ! she was good to all ! a wof'ul day 

'Twas for tlie poor when to her grave she weiitl 


They lost a friend then P 

You're a stranger here. 
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they sick F 
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs 
She could have taught the doctors. Then at ^vmter, 
Wlien weekly she distributed the bread 
In the poor old porch, to see her a:id to hear 
The blessings on her ! And I warrant them 
They were a blessing to her when her wealth 
Had been no comfort else. At Cliiistmas, sir ! 
It would have warm'd j'our heart if you had seen 
Her Christmas kitchen; how the blazmg fire 
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs 
So cheerful red; and .'is for mistletoe, 
The finest bough that grew in the country round 
V/as mark'd for madam. Then her old ale went 
So bountiful about ! a Christmas cask, — 
And 'twas a noble one! — God help me, sir! 
Eat I shidl never see such days again. 


Things may be better yet than you suppose. 
And you should hope the best. 


It don't look well. 
These alterations, sii* ! I'm an old man 
And love the good old fashions; we don't find 
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroy<jd 
All that my lady loved; her favourite walk 


Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row 
Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top, 
They must fall too. WeU ! well ! I did not think 
To five to see all this ; and 'tis, perhaps, 
A comfort I sha'n't live to see it long. 


But sure all changes sxe not needs for the worse. 
My fi-iend. 


Mayhap they mayn't, su-; — for all that, 
1 like what I've been used to. I remember 
All this from a child up ; and now to lose it, 
'Tis losing au old friend. There's nothing lefb 
As 'twas. I go abroad and only meet 
With men whose fathers I remember boys; 
The brook that used to nui before my door, 
That's gone to the gi'eat jDond; the trees I learnt 
To climb are down; and I see nothing now 
That tells me of old times, except the stones 
In the churchyard. You are young, sh', and I hope, 
Have many years in store; but pray to God 
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. 


WeU! well ! j^ou've one friend more than you're av/aro o£ 

If the squii'e's taste don't suit with j^oiu's, I warrant 

That's all you'll quarrel -with: walk in and taste 

His beer, old friend! and see if your old lady 

E'er broached a better cask. You did not know roe, 

But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy 

To make you like the outside; but witlun — 

That is not changed, my friend ! you'U always find 

The same old bounty and old welcome there. 


Haery ! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round 
The fire ; and grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us 
One of her stories. 

Ay, dear grandmamma ! 
A pretty story: something dismal now; 
A bloody murder. 


Or about a ghost. 


Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know 
The other night when I was telling ye 
About the light in the churchyard, how you trembled 
Because the screech-owl hooted at the window. 
And would not go to- bed. 

"VVliy, grandmamma, 
You said yourself you did not like to hear him. 
Pray now 1 we wont be frightened. 


Well, well, children ! 
But you've heard all my stories. Let me see, — 
Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered 
The woman dov.'n at Pill ? 


No, — never! never' 


Not how he cut her head oti' in the stable ? 


Oh ! — now ! — do teU us that ! 


You must have heard 
Your mother, childi-en I often tell of her. 


She used to weed iu the garden here, and worm 
Your uncle's dogs,* and serve the house with coal: 
And glad enough she was in winter time 
To drive her asses here; it was cold work 
To follow the slow beasts through sleet and snow; 
And here she found a comibrtt'.ble meal, 
And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll 
Was always welcome. 


Oh ! 'twas blear-eyed Moll, 
The collier woman — a great ugly woman. 
I've heard of her. 


Ugly enough, poor soul. 
At ton yards' distance you could hardly tell 
If it were man or woman, for her voice 
Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore 
A man's old coat and hat, — and then her face ! 
There was a merry story told of her, 
How when the press-gang came to take her husband, 
As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, 
Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself 
Put on his clothes, and went before the captain. 


And so they prest a woman ! 


'Twas a trick 
She dearly loved to tell, and all the country- 
Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel 
For miles around. All weathers and all hours 
She crossed the hiU, as hardy as her beasts. 
Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts. 
And if she did not reach her home at night. 
She laid her down in the stable with her asses, 
And slept as sound as they did. 


With her asses P 

• I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is common In 
otlier parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the dogs tom 
'icing any mischiet should they afterwards Lccome mad. 



Yes, and slie loved her beasts. For tliough, poor wretch, 

She was a terrible reprobate, and sA\'ore 

Like any trooper, she was always good 

To the dumb creatiu'es, never loaded them 

Beyond their strength, and rather, I believe, 

Would stint herselt' than let the poor beasts want. 

Because, she said, they could not ask for Ibod. 

I never saw lier stick fall heavier on them 

Than just with its own weight. She little thouglit 

This tender-heartedness woukl be her death. 

There was a fellow v/ho had oftentimes, 

As if lie took delight in cruelty. 

Ill-used her asses. He was one who lived 

By smuggling, and, for she had often met liim 

Crossing the down at night, she threatened him, 

If he tormented them again, to inform 

Of his unlawful ways. Well — so it was — 

'Twas what they both v/ere born to ; he provoked her. 

She laid an information, and one morning 

They found her in the stable, h(!r throat cut 

From ear to ear, 'till the head only hung 

Just by a bit of skin. 


Oh dear ! ch dear ! 


I hope they hung the man ! 


They took him up; 
There was no proof, no one had seen the deed. 
And he was set at liberty. But God, 
Whose eye beholdeth all things, he had seen 
The murder, and the murderer knew that God 
Was witness to his crime. He fled the place; 
But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand 
Of Heaven ! but nowhere could the murderer rest. 
A guilty conscience haunted him; by day. 
By night, in company, iji solitude. 
Restless and wretched, did he bear upon hiin 
The weight of blood; her cries were in his eai'S; 
Her stifled groans, as when he knelt upon her. 
Always he heard ; always lie saw her stand 


Before his eyes; even in the dead of night, 
, Distinctly seen as though in the broad sun, 
She stood beside the muixlerer's bed and yawn'd 
Her ghastly wound; till life itself became 
A punishment at last he could not bear, 
And he confess'd* it all, and gave himself 
To death; so terrible, he said, it was 
To have a guUty conscience, 


Was he hung then ? 

Hung ant} anatomized. Poor, wretched man ! 
Your rmcje.s went to see him on his trial; 
He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed. 
And such a horror in his meagre face. 
They said he look'd like one who never slept. 
He begrg'd the prayers of all who saw his end, 
And met his death with fears that well miglit warn 
From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ. 


The story related in this Eclogue is strictly true. I rnet the foncral, 
and learnt the circumstances, in a village in Hampshire. The indif- 
ference of the cliild was mentioned to me ; indeed no addition what- 
ever has been made to the story. 

The coffin, as I past across the lane. 

Came sudden on my view. It was not here 

A sight of every day, as in the streets 

Of the great city, and we paused and ask'd 

Who to the grave was going. They replied. 

It was a village girl, one who had borne 

An eighteen months' strange illness, and had pined 

* There may probably be some persons living who remember these 
Sircumstances. They happened many years ago, in the neighbourhood 
of Bristol. Tlie woman's name was Bees. The stratagem by which 
she preserved her husband from the press-gang is also related of her. 


With sucli slow Wcasting, that the hour of death 

Came welcorao to her. We pursvied our way 

To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk 

Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot. 

We wore awaj' the time. But it was eve 

"Wlien homewardly I went, and m the air 

Was that €ool freshness, that discolouiing shade, 

That makes the eye trnm inward. Then I heard 

Over the vale the heavy toll of death 

Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead. 

I questioned more, and learnt her sorrowful tale. 

She bore unhushanded a mother's name, 

And he, who should have cherished her, far oii 

Sail'd on the seas, self-exiled il'om liis home. 

For he was poor. Left, thus, a wretched one, 

Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues 

Were busy with her name. She had one ill 

Heavier — neglect — forgetfulness from him 

"Wliom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote. 

But only once that di'op of comfort came 

To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; 

And when his parents had some tidings from him. 

There was no mention of poor Hamiah there, 

Or 'twas the cold inquuy, bitterer 

Than silence. So she pined and pined away. 

And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd, 

Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest 

From labour, knitting there with arms outstretch'd. 

Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother 

Omitted no kuid office, worldng for her. 

Albeit her hardest working barely eam'd 

Enough to keep life struggling and prolong 

The pains of grief and siclmess. Thus she lay 

On the sick bed of poverty, so worn 

With her long suffering and those painful thoughts 

Wliich at her heart lay rankhng, and so weak, 

That she could make no effort to express 

Affection for her infant; and the cliLld, 

Whose lispmg love perhaps had solaced her. 

With natural infantine ingratitude 

Shmm'd her as one indifferent. She was past 

That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on, 

And 'twas her only comfort now to tliink 

Upon the grave. " Pooi- girl !" her mother said. 


" Thou hast sufTcred raucli !" " Ay, motlier ! there 5s noue 
Can tell what I lirive suffered !" she replied; 
" But I shall soon be where the weary rest." 
And soon the rest she praj'C'j tor was vouchsafed. 
For it pleased God to take her to liis nicicy. 



Sir, for the love of God, some small relief 
To a poor woman I 


'(Vliither ai e you bound p 
'Tis a late hour ttv travel o'er these do\vns, 
No house for miles around us, and the way 
Dreary and wild. The evening wind already 
Makes one's teeth chatter, and tlie very sun, 
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, 
Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night! 


Ay, sir, 
'Tis cutting keen ! I smart at every breath; 
Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end. 
For the way is long beibre me, and my feet, 
God help me ! sore with travelling. I would gladlyj 
If it pleased God, lie down at once and die. 


N;vy, nay, cheer up ! a little food and rest- 
Will comfort you; and then your journey's end 
Will make amends I'or all. You shake your head. 
And weep. Is it soms evil business, then. 
That leads you Irom your home ? 


Sir, I am going 
To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt 
In the late action, and in the hospital 
Dying, I fear me, now. 

THE sailor's moth Ell. 233 


Perhajw your feaT3 
Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost 
There may be still enough for comfort left; 
An arm or leg shot oif, there's yet the heart 
To keep life warm, and he may live to talk 
AVitli pleasure of the glorious tight that maim'd him. 
Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude 
Makes the maim'd sailor happj'. 


'Tis not that,— 
An arm or leg — I could have borne with that. 
'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing 
"Wliich bursts and burns, that hurt him. Somethings sLt; 
They do not use on board our English ships, 
It is so wicked. 


Ilascals ! a mean art 
Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain ! 


Yes, sir ! and they should sIioav no mercy to them 

For making use of such unchristian arms. 

I had a letter from the hospital, — 

lie got some friend to write it, — and he tells me 

That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes — • 

Burnt out. Alas ! that I should ever live 

To see this wretched day; — they tell me, sir. 

There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed, 

'Tis a hard journey that I go upon 

To such a dismal end. 


He 3'efc may live. 
But if the worst should chance, why you must beai 
The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not 
Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen 
Fighting his country's cause ? and for yourself, 
You will not in unpiticd poverty, 
Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country. 
Amid the trimnph of her victory. 
Remembers those who paid its price of blood, 
And with a noble charity relieves 
The widow and the orphan. 



God reward theni ! 
God bless tliem ! it will lielp me in my age; 
But sir, it will not pay me I'or my child ! 


Was lie your only child ? 


My only one. 
The stay and comfort of my widowhood, 
A dear good boy 1 When iirst he went to sea, 
I felt what it would come to — something told mc 
I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir. 
If it be true that for a hurt like his 
There is no cure ? Please God to spare his life, 
Though he be bhnd, yet I should be so thankful ! 
I can remember there v/as a blind man 
Lived in our village, one from his youth up 
Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, 
And he had none to tend on him so well 
As I would tend cy boy ! 


Of this be sure, 
His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help 
The land affords, as rightly is his due. 
Ever at hand. How happened it he left you ? 
Was a seafaring life his early choice ? 


No, sir. Poor fellow, he was wise enough 

To be content at home, and 'twas a home 

As comfortable, su-, even though I say it, 

As any in the country. He was left 

A little boy when his poor father died. 

Just old enough to totter by himself 

And call his mother's name. We two were all. 

And as we were not left quite destitute, 

We bore up well. In the summer time I worked 

Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, 

And in long winter nights my spinning wheel 

Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours, too 

And never felt distress. So he grew up 

THE sailor's JUOTUER. 235 

A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed; 
I tau^'ht liiin well; there was not in the parish 
A child who said his prayers more regular, 
Or answered readier through his catechism. 
If I had foreseen this ! But 'tis a blessing 
Wo don't know what we're born to ! 


But how came it 
Ho chose to be a sailor ? 


You shall lieai-, sir; 
As he grew up he used to watcli the birds 
In the corn, — child's work you laiow, and easilj' done. 
'Tis an idle sort of taslc; so he buUt up 
A little hut of wicker-work and clay 
Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain. 
And then he took, for very idleness, 
To making traps to catch the plunderers: 
All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, — ■ 
Propping a stone to fall and shut them in. 
Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe 
Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly, — - 
And I, — poor, foolish woman ! I was pleased 
To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
"VVliat followed, sir, from this unlucky skill. 
He did what he should not when be was older: 
I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught 
In wiling hai'es at last, and had his choice—^ 
The prison or the ship. 


The choice at least 
Was kindly left him, and for broken laws 
Tlus v/as, methinks, no heavy pimishment. 


So I was told, sir. And I tried to think so. 
But 'twas a sad blow to me ! I was used 
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child, — ■ 
Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start 
And think of my poor boy, tossing about 
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seein'd 
To feel that it was hard to take him from ma 


Tor such a little fault. But he was ^vron^, 
Oh, very wi'ong, — a murrain on his traps I 
See what they've brought him to ! 


■ Well ! well I lalce coinfortj 
lie will be taken care of if he lives; 
And should you lose your child, this is a covmtry 
Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent 
To weep for him in want. 


Sir, I shall want 
ISTo succour long. In the common course of yearj 
I soon must be at rest; and 'tis a comfort, 
Wlien grief is hard xipon me, to reflect 
It only lead:3 me to that rest the sooner. 



Fathee ! here, father ! I have found a horse-shoa I 
Faith, it was just in time, for t'other night 
I laid two straws across at ]\Iargery's door. 
And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me 
A mischief for't. There was the miller's boy 
Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, 
I met him upon crutches, and he told me 
'Twas all her evil eye. 

'Tis rare good luck; 
I would have gladly given a crown for one 
If 'twould have done as well. But where didst find it ? 


Down on the common; I was going a-field 
And neighbour Saunders pass'd me ou his mare; 
He had hardly said " Good day," before 1 saw 


The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue 
To call liim back; — it makes no difierence, docs it. 
Because I know whose 'twas ? 


Wliy no, it can't. 
The shoe's the same, you know, and you did find ii 


That mare of his has got a plaguy road 
To travel, father, and if he should lame her. 
For she is but tender-footed, — 


Ay, indeed ! 
T should not like to see her limping back. 
Poor beast ! but charity begins at home ; 
And, Nat, there's om- own horse in such a way 
This morning ? 


Why he ha'n't hec^n rid again ! 
Last night I hung a pebble by the manger 
With a hole through, arid everybody says 
That 'tis a special charm against the hags, 


It could not be a proper natural hole, then. 
Or 'twas not a right pebble, — for I found liim 
Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb. 
And panting so ! God knows where he had been 
When we were all asleep, through bush and brake, 
Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch 
At such a deadly rate ! 


By land and water. 
Over the sea, perhaps !^I have heard tell 
That 'tis some thousand ixnles, almost at the end 
Of the world, where witches go to meet the devil 
They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear 
Some ointment over them, and then away 
Out of the wmdow ! But 'tis worse than all 
To v/orry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it. 
That in a Christian country they sliould let 
Such creatures live ! 



Ar.d when there's such plain proof 1 
I did but threaten her because she robb'd 
Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind 
That made me shake to hear it in my bed ! 
How came it that that stonn unroofed my barn, 
And only mine in the parish ? Looli at her. 
And that's enougli ; she has it in lier face, — 
A pair of largs dead eyes, sunlc in her head. 
Just like a coi'pse, and pursed with wrinkles round, 
A nose and cliin that scarce leave room between 
For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff ; 
And when she speaks ! I'd sooner hear a raven 
Croak at my door ! She sits there, nose and knees 
Smoke-di-ied and thrivcU'd over a starved fire, 
With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes 
Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure 
It must be one of his imps ! Ay, nail it hard. 


I wish old Margery heard the hammer go .' 
She'd curse the music. 


Here's the curate coming, 
He ought to rid the parish of such vermin. 
In the old tunes they used to hunt them out 
And hang them without mercy. But, Lord bless as 
The world is grown so wicked ! 


Good day, farmer ? 
Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold ? 


A horse-shoe, sir; 'tis good to keep off witchcraft, 
And we're afraid of Margery. 


Poor old woman, 
WliaL can you fear from her ? 


'V\1:at can we fear ! 
Wlio lamed the miller's boy ? Wlio raised the wind 
That blew my old barn's roof down ? Who d'ye think 


Rides my poor hovse a'nights ? Wlio mocks the liouuds ? 

But let me catch her at that trick again, 

And IVe a silver ballet ready for her. 

One that shall lame her, double how she will. 


What makes her sit there moping l:)y herself. 
With no soul near her but that great black cat ? 
And do but look at lier ! 

Poor wretch; half blind 
And crooked with her j^ears, without a child 
Or friend m her old age, 'tis hard indeed 
To have her very miseries made her crimes ! 
I met her but last week in tliat hard frost 
Which made my young hrobs ache, and when I ask'd 
What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman 
Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad 
And pick the hedges, just to keep herself 
From perishing with cold, because no neighbour 
Had pity on her age; and then she cried, 
And said the children pelted her with snow-balls. 
And wish'd that she were dead. 


I wish she wa.3 ! 
She has plagued the parish long enough ! 


Shame, farmer I 
Is that the charity your Bible teaches ? 


My Bible does not teach me to love witches. 
I know what's charit3^ Who pays liis tithes 
And poor-rate^ readier ? 


Who can better do it ? 
You've been a prudent and industrious man. 
And God has blest your labour. 


^Vliy, thank God, rir, 
I've had no reason to complain of fortime. 



Complain ! AVliy you lu'e wealthy. All the parish 
Look up to you. 


Perhaps, sir, I could 1(>11 
Guinea for jruinea with the warmest of them. 

You can afTord a little to the poor, 

And then, what's Letter still, you have the heart 

To give from your abundance. 


God forbid 
I should want charity ! 


Oh ! 'tis a comfort 
To think at last of riches well employed ! 
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth 
Of a good deed at that most awful hour 
When riches profit not. 

Farmer, I'm going 
To visit ]\Iargery. She is sick, I heai- — 
Old, poor, and sick ! a misei'able lot. 
And death will be a blessing. You might send her 
Some small matter, something comfortable, 
That she may go down easier to the grave, 
And bless you when she dies. 


What ! is she going ! 
Well, God forgive her then ! if she has dealt 
In the black art. I'll tell my dame of it. 
And she shall send her something. 


So I'll say; 
And take my thanks for hers. [.Oocz. 


That's a good man., 
That curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit 
The poor in sickness; but he don't believe 
In witchcraft, and that is not like a Christian. 



And sc old Margery's dying 1 


But you know 
She may recover; so di'ive t'other nail in ! 


Ay, Cliarles ! I knew that this would fix thine eye,- 
This woodbine wreathing romid the broken porch. 
Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower 
Still fresh and fragrant; and yon hollyhock 
That through the creeping weeds and nettles tall 
Peers taller, and uplift?-, its column'd stem 
Bright ^^^th the broad rose-blossoms. I liave seen 
Many a fallen convent reverend in decay. 
And manj^ a time have trod the castle com-ts 
And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike 
Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts 
As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch 
Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss ; the roof 
Part moulder'd in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, 
House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener moss; 
So Natm-e steals on all the vvorks of man, 
Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself 
His perishable piles. 

I led thee here, 
Charles, not without design; for this hath beeu 
Mj favourite walk even smce I was a boy; 
And 1 remember, Charles, this ruin here, 
The neatest, comfortable dwelling place; 
Tliat when I read in those dear books which firs. 
Woke in my heart the love of poesy, 
How Avith the villagers Erminia dwelt, 
And Calidore for a fair shepherdess 
Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore; 
My fancy drew from tliis the little hut 
Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, 
Or where the <rr,ntle CaUdore at eve 


Led Pastorella home. Tliere was not then 

A weed where all these nettles overtop 

The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet 

The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, 

All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd 

So lavishly around the pillared porch 

Its f.agrant flowers, that when I pass'd this way, 

After a truant absence hastening home, 

I could not choose but pass with slacken'd speed 

By that delighttul fragrance. Sadly changed 

Is this poor cottage ! and its dwellers, Charles !^ 

Theirs is a simple, melancholy tale, — 

There's scarce a village but can fellow it, 

And yet methinks it will not weary thee. 

And should-not be untold. 

A widow woman 
Dwelt w^ith her daughter here; just above v/ant, 
She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, 
In better times, the needful calls of life, 
Not without comfort. I remember her 
Sitting at evening in that open door-way. 
And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her 
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles 
To see the passer-by, j^et ceasing not 
To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden, 
On some di'y summer evening, walking round 
To view her flov\'ers, and pointing, as she lean'd 
Upon the ivoiy handJe of her stick. 
To some carnation whose o'erhcavy head 
Needed support, while with the watering-pot 
Joanna followed, and refresh'd and ti-imm'd 
The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, 
As lovely and as happy then as youth 
And innocence could make her. 

Charles ! it seems 
As though I were a boy again, and all 
The mediate years, ^\^th their vicissitudes, 
A half-forgotten dream. I see the maid 
So comely in her Sunday dress ! lier hair. 
Her bright brown haii', wreath'd in contracting curls, 
And then her cheek ! it was a red and white 
That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome. 
The countrymen who, on their way to church. 
Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to heax 


The bell's last summons, and in idleness 
Watching the stream below, Avould all look np 
When she pass'd by. And her old mother, Charles I 
Wlien I have heard some erring infidel 
Speak of our faith as of" a gloomy creed. 
Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. 
Her figm'e has recurr'd; for she did love 
The sabbath-day, and many a time hath croes'd 
These fields in rain and through the wmter sno\V3j 
When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself 
By the fu-e-side, have wonder'd why she came 
Yv^ho might have sate at home. 

One only care 
Hung on her aged spirit. For herself. 
Her path was plain before her, and the close 
Of her long journey near. But then her child. 
Soon to be left alone in this bad world, — 
That was a thought which many a winter night 
Had kept her sleepless; and when prudent love 
In something better than a servant's state 
Had placed her well at last, it v.'^as a pang 
Like pai'tuig life to part with her dear girl. 

One summer, Charles, wlien at the holydays 

Return'd from school, I visited again 

My old accustom'd wallcs, and found in them 

A joy almost like meeting an old friend, 

I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds 

Already crowduig the neglected flowers. 

Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced, 

Had played the wanton, and that l)low had reocli'd 

Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long; 

Her age Avas feeble, and the heavy blow 

Brought her grey hairs witli sorrow to the graTC. 

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes, 

And think of other days. It wakes in me 

A transient sadness ; but the feelings, Charles, 

Wliich ever with these recollections rise, 

I trust in God they will not pass away. 




What, Gregory! yon are come, I see, to join ua 
On this sad business. 

Ay, James, I am come, 
But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man ! 
Wliere shall we meet the corpse ? 


Some hour from hencej 
By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. 
This is not as it should be, Gregory, 
Old men to follov/ young ones to the grave ! 
This morning, when I heard the bell strike out, 
I thought that I had never heard it toll 
So dismally before, 


Well, well ! my friend — 
'Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. 
But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, 
One born so well, who might have blest us all 
Many long years ! — 


And then the family, 
Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name 
Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone ! 
A name that has gone down from sire to son 
So many generations ! — many a time 
Poor Master Edvrard, who is now a corpse. 
When but a child, would come to me and lead me 
To the great family tree, and beg of me 
To tell him stories of his ancestors; 
Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land 
With Kichard Lion-heart, and that Su* Henry, 
Wlio fought at Crecy, in King Edward's wars; 
And then his little eyes would kindle so 
To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think 
The bravest of them all would not out-do 
M}' darlin;j bo^'. 



This comes of your great sclioola 
And college breeding. Plague upon his guardians. 
That would have made him wiser than his fathers! 


If his poor father, Gregory ! liad but lived. 
Tilings would not have been so. He, poor good maii. 
Had little of book-leai-ning, but there lived not 
A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman. 
One better to his tenants. When he died. 
There was not a dry eye for miles ai-ound. 
Gregory, I thought that I could never Imow 
A sadder day tlian that: but wliat was that. 
Compared Avilli this day's sorrovv ? 


I remember. 
Eight months ago, when the young Squii-e began 
To alter the old mansion, they destroy 'd 
The mai-tin's nests, that had stood undistm-b'd 
Under that roof, — ay ! long before my memory. 
I shook my head at seeing it, and thought 
No good could follow. 


Poor young man ! I loved him 
Like my own child. I loved the family ! 
Come Candlemas, and I have been their servant 
For five and forty years. I lived with them, 
When his good father brought my Lady home. 
And when the young Squire was bom, it did me good 
To hear the bells so merrily announce 
All heir. This is indeed a heavy blow— 
I feel it Gregory, heavier than the weight 
Of threescore years. He was a noble lad, 
I loved him dearly. 


Everybod}' loved him 
Such a fine, generous open-hearted youth ! 
Wlien he came home from school at holydaya. 
How I rejoiced to see him ! he was sure 
To come and ask of me what birds there were 
About my fields; and when I found a covey. 


There's not a testy Squire preserves his game 
More chaiily than I have kept them safe 
For i\Iaster Edwaixl. And he look'd so well 
Upon a fine sharp morning after them, 
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so Ilnsh'd 
With such a wliolesome ruddiness ! — ^Ah ! James, 
But lie was sadly changed when ho came down 
To keep his birthday. 


Changed ! why Gregory, 
'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd 
Out of the cai-riage. He was grown so thin. 
His cheeks so delicate saUow, and his eyes 
Had such a dim and rakish hollo\vnes3 ; 
And when he came to shake me by the hand. 
And spoke as kindly to me as he used, 
I hardly knew the voice. 


It struck a damp 
On all our merriment. 'Twas a noble ox 
That smok'd before us, und the old October 
Went menily in overflowing cans; 
But 'twas a skin-deep memmeni. My heart 
Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank 
His health, the thought came over me what cause 
We had for wishing that, and spoilt the di-aught. 
Poor gentleman ! to think ten months ago 
He came of age — and now ! 


I fear'd it then, 
He look'd to me as one that was not long 
For this world's business. 


'WTien the doctor sent hlia 
Abroad to try the air, it made me certain 
That all v/as over. There's but little hope 
Methiuks that foreign parts can help a man 
When his own mother-country will not do. 
The last time he came down, these bells rang so, 
I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down; 
^d now that dismal toU ! I would have stayed 


Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty; 

I am an old tenant of tlie iamily, 

Born on the estate, and now that I've out-lived it,^ 

Why 'tis but right to see it to the grave. 

Have you heard aught of the new Squire ? 


But little. 
And that not well. But be he what lie niaj-, 
JIatters not much to me. The love I boro 
To the good family will not easily fix 
Upon a stranger. Wliat's on the opposite hill ? 
Is it not the luneral P 


'Tis, I think, some horsemen. 
Ay ! there are the black cloaks ; and now I see 
The white plumes on the hearse. 


Between the trees j—= 
'Tis hid behind them now. 


Ay ! now we see it, 
And there's the coaches following, we shall meet 
About the bridge. WouM that tliis day were over ! 
I wonder whose turn's i7;3xt ! 


God above knows ! 
Wlieu youth is simimon'd, what must age expect ! 
God make us ready, Gregory, when it comes. 



I PEAY you, wherefore are the village bells 
Ringing so merrily ? 


A wedding, sir — 
Two of the village folk. And tliey are right 
To make a merry time on't while they may. 


Come twelve months hence, I warrant thera they'd go 
To church again more willingly Mian now 
So all might "be undone. 


An ill-matcli'd pair, 
So I conceive j'ou. Youth, perhaps, and dgo ? 


No — both are young enough. 


Perhaps the man then — 
A lazy idler, one who better likes 
The alehouse than his work ? 


Why, sir, for that. 
He always was a, well-conditioned lad. 
One who'd work hard and well; and as for drink. 
Save now and then, mayhap at Christmas time. 
Sober as wife could wish. 


Then is the girl 
A shrew, or else untidy ? One who'd welcome 
Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue. 
Or drive him iiom a foul and wretched home 
To look elsewhere for comfort ? Is it so P 


She's notable enough; and as for temper. 

The best good-himiour'd giil ! D'ye see that house ? 

There by the aspen- tree, v/hose grey leaves shine 

In the wind? Slie lived a servant at the farm; 

And often as I came to weeding here, 

£'ve heard her singing as she milk'd her cows 

So cheerfully. I did not like to hea.r her. 

Because it made me think upon the days 

When I had got as little on my mind, 

And was as cheerful too. But she would marry. 

And folks must reap as they have sown, God help her ! 


Why, mistress, if they both are well inclinart, 
Wliy should not both be happy ? 



The^'Ve no money. 


But both can work; and sui-e as cheerfully 
She'd labour for herself as at the farm. 
And he wont work the worse because he knows 
That she will make his fire-side ready for him, 
And watch for his return. 

A little while. 


All very v/ell, 


And what if they are poor ? 
Riches can't always pui-chase happine^^s; 
And much we know will be expected there 
Where much was given. 


All this I have heard at church ! 
And when I walk in the church-j'ard, or have been 
By a deatli-bed, 'tis mighty comforting. 
But when I hear my children cry for hunger, 
And see them shiver in their rags — God help me ! 
I pity those for whom these bells ring up 
So merrily upon their wedding-day, 
Because I think of mine. 


You have known trouble j 
These haply may be happier. 


Why, for that, 
I've had my share; some sickness and some sorrow; 
Well will it be for them to know no worse. 
Yet had 1 rather hear a daughter's knell 
Than her wedding peal, sir, if I thought her fate 
Promised nc better things. 


Sure, sure, good womau. 
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes ! 
All have their cares; those who are poor want wealth 


Those \^ho have wealth want more; so are we dl 
Dissatisiied, yet all live on, and each 
Has his own comforts, 


Sir, d'ye see that horse 
Turn'd out to common here hy the way-side ? 
He's high m bone; you may tell every rib 
Even at this distance. Mind him ! How he turns 
His head, to drive away the Hies that feed 
On his gall'd shoulder ! There's just grass enough 
To disappoint his whetted appetite. 
You see his comforts, sir ! 


A \vretched beast ! 
Hard labour and worse usage he endures 
From some Ijad master. But the lot of the poor 
Is not like his, 

In truth it is not, sir ! 
^or when the horse lies down at night, no careo 
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams. 
He knows no quarter-day; and when he gets 
Some musty hay o}" patch of hedge-row grass, 
He has no hungry children to claim part 
Of his half meal ! 


'Tis idleness makes want, 
And idle habits. If the man will go 
And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire, 
Wliom can he blame if there is want at home ? 

Ay ! idleness ! The rich folks never fail 

To find some reason why the poor deserve 

Their miseries ! Is it idleness, I pr-ay you. 

That brings tlie fever or the ague fit ? 

That makes the sick one's sickly appetite 

Turn at the dry bread and potato meal ? 

Is it idleness that makes small wages fail 

For growing wants ? Six years agoue, these bells 

Eung on my wedding-day, and I was told 

What I might look for, — but I did not heed 

THE WEDDma 251 

Good counsel. I had lived in service, sir; 

Knew never wliat it was to want a meal; 

Laid down without one thought to keep me sleepless 

Or trouble me in sleep ; had for a Sunday 

My linen gown, and when the pedlar came, 

Could buy mo a new ribbon: — and my husband, — - 

A towardly young man and well to do; 

He had his silver buckles and his watch ; 

There was not ui the village one who look'd 

Sprucer on holydays. We married, sir, 

Ajid v,'8 had ohlldi'en; but as wants increased, 

Wages did not. The silver buckles went. 

So went the watch; and when the holyday coat 

Was worn to work, no new one m its place. 

For me — you see my rags ! But I deserve them. 

For wiliully, like this new-married pair, 

I went to my imdoing. 


But the parish • 


Ay, it falls heavy there, and yet tlteir pittance 
Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect. 
To slave while there is strength, m age the workhouse 
A parish shell at last, and the little bell 
Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral ! 


Is this your child ? 


Ay, sir, and were he di-ess'«l 
And clean, he'd be as fine a boy to look on 
As the squire's j'oung master. These thin rags of his, 
Let comfortably in the summer wind; 
But when the winter comes, it pinches me 
To see the little wretch ! I've three besides. 
And — God forgive me ! but I often Avish 
To see them in their cof&ns. — God reward you ! 
God bless you for your charity ! 


You have taught me 
To give sad meaning to the village bells ! 




Whom are they ushering from the world, with all 
This pageantry and long parade of death ? 

A long parade, indeed, sir, and, yet here 
You see but half; round j'onder bend it reaches 
A fui-lcng fai-ther, carriage beliind carriage. 


'Tis but a mournful sight, and yet tiie pomp 
Tempts me to stand a gazer. 


Yonder schoolboy 
'\^^l0 plays the truant, says the proclamation 
Of peace was nothing to the show; and even 
The chau'ing of the members at election 
Would not have been a finer sight than this. 
Only that red fmd grcon are prettier colours 
Than all this black. There, su-, you behold 
One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city. 
The envy and the boast of our exchange ;— 
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good haU'-million,- 
Screw'd down in yonder hearse ! 


Then he was born 
Under a luck}' planet, Avho to-day 
Puts moiuTiing on for his inheritance. 

When first I heard his death, that very wish 
Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene 
Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts: 
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave. 
There will not be the weight of wealth like his 
To sink me down. 


The camel and the needles — 
I? that, then, in your mind P 

THE alderman's FUNERAL. 253 


Even so. The toxt 
Is gospel-wisdom. I would ride the camel, — 
Yea, leap him Hying, — through the needle's eye 
As easily as such a pampered soul 
Could pass the narrow gate. 


Pardon nie, sir. 
But sure this lack of Christian charity 
Looks not like Christian truth. 


Your pardon, too, sir. 
If, with this text before me, I should leel 
In the preaching mood ! But for these barren fig-trees. 
With all their flourish and their leafiness. 
We have been told tlieir destiny and use, 
"Wlien the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
Cumber the earth no longer. 


Was bis wealth 
Stored fraudfuUy, — ^the spoil of orphans wroi:g"d. 
And widows who had none to plead their right? 


All honer.t, open, honourable gains. 
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages, 
Ships to the east and west. 


Why judge you then 
So hardly of the dead ? 


For what he left 
Undone. — For sins, not one of which is mentioned 
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him. 
Believed no other Gods than tliose of Ihe Creed: 
Bow'd to no idols — but his money-ba^s: 
Swore no false oaths, — except at the custom-house: 
Kept the Sabbath idle : built a monument 
To honour his dead father: did no murder: 
Was too old-fashion'd for adultery : 
Never pick'd pockets; never bore false- witness: 
And never, with that all-commanding wealth, 
Coveted his nei^-hbour's house, nor ox, nor aas! 



You knew him, then, it seems ? 


As all men lvno".v 
The virtues of your huncli'ed- thousandcrs ; 
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. 

Nay, nay, uncharitable sir ! for often 
Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen 
Freshening and giving lile along its coiu'se. 


"We track the streamlet by the brighter green 
And livelier gi-owth it f^ives; — but as for this— 
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk; 
The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it 
But slime and Ibul corruption. 


Yet even these 
Are reservoirs whence public charity 
Still keeps her channels iull. 


Now, sir, you touch 
Upon the point. This man of half a million 
Had aU these public virtues which you praise: 
But the poor man rur.g never at his door; 
And the old beggar, at the pubhc gate, 
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand. 
He knew how vain it was to lift an cj'e 
To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
Youi" benefactors in the newspapers. 
His alms were money put to interest 
In the other world,— donations to keep open 
A running charity-accomit v/ith heaven: — 
Betaining fees against the last assizes, 
When, for the trusted talents, strict accoTuit 
Shall be requhed irom all, and the old arch-lawj-er 
Pl£;id liis own cause as plaintifl". 


I must; needs 
Beheve you, sir — these are yom- witn esses, 

THE alderman's funeral. 256 

These moui-ners here, who from their carriages 
Stare at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
Were to he prayed for now, to lend their eyes 
Some decent rheum. The very liireling mute 
Bears not a face hlanher of all emotioa 
Than the old servant of the family ! 
How can this man have lived, that thus hir. d.>aih 
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief! 


"Wlio should lament for him, sir, in whose heart 

Love had no place, nor natui-al chai-ity ? 

The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step, 

Rose slowly fi'om the hearth, aud stole aside 

With creepmg pace; she never raised her eyea 

To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 

Upraised upon his knee, wdth fondling whine. 

How could it be but thus ! Arithmetic 

Was the sole science he was ever taught ; 

The multiplication-table was his Creed, 

His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. 

When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 

The open air and sunshine of the fields. 

To give his blood its natural spring and plaj-, 

He in a close and dusky counting-house, 

Smoke-di'ied and sear'd and shrivell'd up his heart. 

So, from the waj' in which he was train'd up. 

His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd. 

Poor muck-worm ! through his tlu'cescore j'eai's and ten: 

And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him, — 

If that which served him for a soul were still 

Within its husk, — 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 


Yet your next newspapers wUl blazon him 
For industry and honourable wealth 
A bright example. 

Even half a million 
Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
Some twelve- months hence, and you will find his virtues 
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, 
Faith, vfith. her torch beside, and little Cupids 
Dropping Vipon his uin their mai'ble tears. 



Jaspar was poor, and vice and want 
Had made his heart lilie stone, 

And Jaspar look'd w'lih. envious eyes 
On riches not his own. 

On plunder bent abroad he went 

Tov/ards tlic close oi" day, 
And loitered on the lonely road 

Impatient for his prey. 

No traveller came, he loiter'd long. 

And often loolc'd around, 
And paused and listen'd eagerly 

To catch some coming sound 

He sat him down beside tlie stream 
That cross'd the lonely way, 

So fair a seene might well have charm'd 
All evil thoughts away: 

He sat beneath a willow tree 
That cast a trembling shade, 

The gentle river full m front 
A little island made, 

Where pleasantly the moon-beam shone 

Upon the poplar trees, 
Whose shadow on the stream below 

Play'd slowly to the breeze. 

He listen'd — and he heard the wind 
That waved the willow tree; 

He heard the waters flow along- 
And murmur quietly, 


JASPAR. 257 

He listeu'd for the traveller's tre.ifl, 

The uightiugale sung sweet, — 
He started up, for now he heard 

The souud of coming feet ; 

He started up and graspt a stake 

And waited for his prey : 
There came a lonely traveller 

And Jaspar crost his way. 

But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd 

The traveller to appal, 
He would not ligh.tly yield the purse 

That held his little all. 

Awhile he struggled, but he strove 

With Jaspar's strength in vain ; 
Beneath his blows he fell and groau'd. 

And never spoke again. 

lie lifted up the murdered man 

And plunged him in the flood, 
A nd in the running water then 

He cleansed his hands from blood. 

'i'he waters closed around the corpse 

And cleansed his hands from gore, 
The willow waved, the stream flowed on 

And murmured as before. 

There was no human eye had seen 

The blood the murderer spilt, 
And Jaspar's conscience never knew 

The avenging goad of guilt. 

And soon the ruftian had consum'd 

The gold he gain'd so ill. 
And years of secret guilt pass'd on 

And he was needy still. 

One eve beside the alehouse fire 

He sat as it befell, 
When in there came a labouring man. 

Whom Jaspar knew full well. 


He sat liim down by Jaspar's side 

A melancholy man, 
For spite of honest toil, the world 

Went hard with Jonathan. 

His toil a little earn'd, and he 

With little was content, 
But sickness on his wife had fallen 

And all he had was spent. 

Then with his wife and little ones 

He shared the scanty meal, 
And saw their looks of wretchedness, 

And felt what wretches feel. 

That very morn the landlord's power 

Had seized the little left. 
And now the sufierer touud himself 

Of everything bereft. 

He leant his head upon his hand, 

His elbow on his knee. 
And so by Jaspar's side he sat. 

And not a word said he. 

Nay — why so downcast? Jaspar cried. 

Come — cheer up, Jonathan I 
Drink,neighbour, drink ! 'twill warm thy heart ■ 

Come ! come ! take courage, man ! 

He took the cup that Jaspar gave, 
And down he drain'd it quick ; 

T have a wife, said Jonathan, 
And she ia deadly sick. 

She has no bed to lie upon, 

I saw them take her bed : — 
And I have children — ^^V0uld to God 

That they and I were dead ! 

Om* landlord he goes home to-night, 

And he will sleep in peace — 
T would that I were in my grave, 

For there all troubles cease. 

JASrAR. 25'i 

III vain I pi'.iyM him to forbear, 

Though wealth enough has he! 
God be to hiiu as mei'ciless 

As he has been to me! 

When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul 

On all his ills mtent, 
He plied him with the heartening cup, 

And with him forth he went. 

This landlord on his homeward road 

'Twere easy now to meet. 
The road is lonesome, Jonathan! — 

And vengeance, man ! is svreet. 

He listen'd to the tempter's voice, 

The thought it made him start. 
His head was hot, and wretchedness 

Had hardeaed now his heart. 

Along the lonely road they went 

And waited for their prey, 
They sat them down beside the stream 

That crossed the lonely way. 

They sat them down lieside the stream, 

And never a word they said, 
They sat and listen'd silently 

I'o hear the traveller's tread. 

The night was calm, the night was dark. 

No star was in the sky. 
The wind it waved the willow boughs, 

The stream flowed quietly. 

The niglit was calm, the air was stillj 

oweet sung the nightingale. 
The soul of Jonathan was sooth'd, 

His heart began to fail. 

'TIS weary waiting here, he cried, • 

And now the hour is late, — • 
Methinks he will not come to-nigh {;, 

'Tis Ubeless more to wait. 


Have patience, man! the ruffian said^ 

A little we may wait, 
But longer shall his wife expect 

Her husband at the gate. 

Then Jonathan grew sick at heart. 

My conscience yet is clear, 
Jas23ar — it is not yet too late — 
I will not linger here. 

How now! cried Jaspar, why I thought 
Thy conscience was asleejj. 

No more such qualms, the night is dark, 
Tiie river here is deep. 

What matters that, said Jonathan, 
Whose blood began to freeze, 

When there is one above whose eye 
The deeds of darkness sees ? 

We are safe enough, said Jaspar then 

If that be all thy fear ; 
Nor eye below, nor eye above. 

Can pierce the darkness here. 

That instant as the murderer spake 
There came a sudden light ; 

Strong as the mid-day sun it shonc- 
Though all around v/as night. 

It hung njDon the willow-tree, 

It hung upon the flood, 
It gave to view the poplar isle 

And all the scene of blood. 

The traveller who journies there, 

He surely has espied 
A madman who has made his homi 

Upon the river's side. 

Ills cheek is pale, his eye is wild, 
His look bespeaks desj^air ; 

For Jaspar since that hour has mad( 
His home unshelter'd there. 


Aud fearful are liis dreams at uiglit 

And dread to him tlie day; 
He thinks upon liis untold crime 

Aud never dares to pray. 

The summer suns, the winter storms, 

O'er him unheeded roll, 
For heavy is the weiglit of blood 

Upon the maniac's soul. 


No eye beheld when William plunged 
Young Edmund in the stream, 

No human ear but William's heard 
Young Edmund's drowning scream. 

Submissive all the vassals own'd 
The murderer for their lord. 

And he, the rightful heir, possessed 
The house of Erliugford. 

The ancient house of Erlingforfl 

Stood in a fair domain. 
And Severn's ample waters near 

Eoll'd through the fertile plaim 

And often the way-faring man 
Would love to linger tliera 

Forgetful of his onward road 
To gaze on scenes so fair. 

But never could Lord William dare 
To gaze on Severn's stream ; 

In every wind that sv/e])t its waves 
He heard young Edmund scream. 

In yam at midnight's silent hour 
Sleep closed the murderer's eyea; 

In every dream the murderer saw 
iTouug Edmun;i'a form arise. 


In vain by restless conscience driven 
Lord William left his liome, 

Far from the scenes that saw liis guilty 
In pilgx'image to roam. 

To other climes the pilgrim fled, 

But could not fly despair ; 
lie sought his home again, but peace 

Was still a stranger there. 

Each hour was tedious long, yet svv'ift 
The mouths appear'd to roll ; 

And now the day returned that shook 
With terror William's soul. 

A day that William never felt 

Eeturn without dismay, 
For well had conscience kalendercd 

Young Edmund's dying day. 

A fearful day was that ! The rains 
Fell fast with tempest roar, 

And the swoln tide of Severn spread 
Far on the level shore. 

In vain Lord Wi]lin,m sought the feast, 
In vain he quaff 'd the bowl, 

And strove "\^dth noisy mirth to di'owii 
The anguish of his soul. 

The tempest as its sudden swell 

In gusty bowlings came, 
With cold and death-like feelings seem'd 

To thrill his shuddering frame. 

Eeluctaut now, as night came on, 
His lonely couch he prest, 

And wearied out, he sunk to sleep, 
To sleep, but not to rest. 

Beside that couch his brother's i'orni 
Lord Edmund seem'd to stand, 

Such and so pale as when in death 
He grasp'd his brother's hand; 


Such aud so pale lii.-s face as when 

With faint aud faltering tongue, 
To William's care, a dying charge 

He left his orphan son. 

" I bade thee with a father's love 

My orphan Edmund guard 

Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge! 

Now take thy due reward." 

He started up, each limb convuls'd 

With agonizing fear, 
He only heard the storm of uight,^ 

'Twas music to his ear. 

When, lo ! the voice of loud alarm 

His inmost soul appals : 
" What ho I Lord William, rise in haste ! 

The water saps thy walls ! 

He rose in haste ; beneath the Avails 

He saw the flood appear. 
It hemm'd him round. 'Twas midnight now, 

No human aid was near. 

He heard the shout of joy ; for now 

A boat approached the wall, 
And eager to the welcome aid 

They crowd for safety all. 

" My boat is small," the boatman cried, 

" 'Twill bear but one away : 
Come in, Lord William, and do ye 

In God's protection stay." 

Strange feeling fiU'd them at his voice 

Even in that hour of woe. 
That, save their Lord, there was not one 

Who wish'd with him to go. 

But William leapt into the boat 

His terror was so sore ; 
Thou shalt have half my gold, he ciied, 

Haste, haste to yonder shore. 


The Ijoatman plied the oar, the bo£.1; 

Went light along the stream, 
Sudden Lord William heard a cry 

Like Edmund's drowning scream. 

The boatman paus'd, methought I heard 

A child's distressful cry ! 
'Twas but the howling wind of night 

Lord William made reply. 

Haste, haste ! ply swift and strong the oar ! 

Haste, haste across the stream ! 
Again Lord William heard a cry 

Like Edmund's drowning scream. 

I heard a child's distressfnl scream 

The boatman cried again. 
Nay hasten on — the night is dark — 

And we should search in vain. 

Oh God 1 Lord William dost thou know 

How dreadful 'tis to die '/ 
And canst tliou without pity hear 

A child's expiring cry i 

How horrible it is to sink 

Beneath the chilly stream, 
To stretch the powerless arms in vain. 

In vain for help to scream 1 

The shriek again was heard : it came 
More deep, more piercing loud ; 

That instant o'er the flood the moon 
Shone through a broken cloud : 

And near them the}'^ beheld a child, 

Upon a crag he stood, 
A little crag, and all around 

Was sjjread the rising flood. 

The boatman plied the oar, the boat 
Approach'd his resting place. 

The moon-beam shone upon the child 
And show'd how pale his face. 


Now re.acli thine haud ! the boatman cfied, 

Loid William reach aud ! 
The child stretch'd forth his little hands 

To grasp the hand he gave. 

Then William shriek 'd; the hand he touch'd 

Was cold and damp and dead ! 
He felt young Edmund in his anus 

A heavier weight than lead. 

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk 

Beneath the avenging stream ; 
He rose, he scream'd, no human ear 

Heard William's drownin-j; seieani. 



Merrily, merrily rung the bel's, 

The bells of St. JMichael's tower, 
When liicliard Penlake and Kebecoa his wife 

Ai-rived at the church door. 

Richard Penlake was a cheeriul man, 

Cheerful, and fi'ank, and free. 
But he led a sad life with Eebecca his wife, 

For a terrible shrew was she. 

Richard Penlake a scolding w^ould take, 

Till patience avail'd no longer, 
Then Richard Penlake his ci'ab-stick would takt 

And show her that he was the stronger. 

Eebecca his wife had often wish'd 

To sit in St. IMichael's chair ; 
For she should be the mistress then, 

li she liad once sat there. 


Ifc cliancecl that Eicliavd Penlake fell sick, 
They thought he woukl have died ; 

Eebecca, his wife, made a vov/ for his life, 
As she knelt by his bed-side. 

** Now hear my prayer, St. Michael ! aud spare 

My husband's life," quoth she ; 
*' Aiid to thine altar we will go. 

Six marks to give to thee." 

Richard Penlake repeated the vow, 

For v/oundily sick Avas he ; 
" Save me, St. Michael, and we will go. 

Six marks to give to thee." 

When Richard grew well, Eebecca his wife 
Teased him by night and by day: 

" O mine own dear! for you I fear, 
If we the vow delay." 

Merrily, merrily rung the bells, 
The bells of St. Michael's tower, 

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife 
Arrived at the church door. 

Six marks they on the altar laid. 

And Richard knelt in j^rayer : 
She left him to praj'', and stole away 

To sit in St. JMichael's chaii-. 

Up the tower Rebecca ran. 

Round and round and round ; 
'Twas a giddy sight to stand a-top. 

And look upon the ground. 

" A curse on the ringers for rocking 

The tower!" Rebecca cried, 
As over the church battlements 

She strode with a long stride. 

"A blessing on St. Michael's chair!" 

She said as she sat down : 
Merrily, merrily, rung the bfells. 

And Rebecca was shook to the ground. 


Tidings to Eichard Penlake wei-e brought 

That his good wife was dead : 
" Now shall we toll for her poor soul 

The great chureli belli" they said. 

" Toll at her burying," quoth Eichard Peulalce, 

" Toll at her burying," quoth he ; 
" Biit don't disturb the ringers now, 

In compliment to me." 


The rage of Babylon is rous'd, 
The king puts forth his strength ; 
And Judah bends the bow, 
And points her arrows for the coming war. 

Her walls are firm, her gates are strong, 
Her youth gird on the svrord ; 
High are her chiefs in hope, 
For Egypt soon will send the promised ail 

But who is he whose voice of woe 
Is heard amid the' streets 1 
Whose ominous voice proclaims 
Her strength and arms and promised succours va.iD i 

His meagre cheek is pale and sunk, 
Wild is his hollow eye, 
Yet fearful its strong glance ; 
And who could bear the anger of his fi'own ? 

Prophet of God ! in vain thy lips 
Proclaim the woe to come ! 
In vain thy warning voice 
Summoned her rulers timely to repent! 

The Ethiop changes not his skin. 
Impious and idiot still. 
The rulers spurn thy voice, 
And now the measure of theu' crimes is full. 


And now around Jerusalem 
The countless foes appear ; 
Far as the eye can reach 
Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege. 

Why is the warrior's cheek so pale ? 
Why droops the gallant youth 
Who late so high of heart 
Made shra-p his javelin for the welcome war? 

'Tis not for terror that his eye 
Swells with the struggling woe ; 
Oh! he could bear his ills, 
Oi- rush to death, and in the grave have peace 

His parents do not ask for food, 
But they are Aveak with want ; 
His wife has gi ven her babes 
Her wretched meal, — she utters no complain 

The consummating hour is come ! 
Alas for Solyma ! 
How is she desolate, — 
She that was great among the iintions fallen ! 

And thou — thou miserable king — • 
Where is thy trusted flock, 
Thy flock so beautiful, 
Thy father's thro:ie, the temple of thy God? 

Bepentance calls not back the past; 
It will not wake again 
Thy murdered sons to life, 
Or bring back vision to thy blasted sight! 

Thou wretched, childless, blind, old man— 
Heav}' thy punishment ! 
Dreadful thy pi'esent woes — 
Alas, more dreadiui thy remember'd guiltj 

269 ^ .^ 



Clear shone the morn, the gale was f\iir, 
When from Corunna's crowded port, 
With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim. 
The huge Armada post. 

To England's shores their streamers point, 
To England's shores their sails are spread ; 
They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land, 
And Rome has blest their arms. 

Along the ocean's echoing verge. 
Along the mountain range of rocks 
The clustering miiltitudes behold their pomp 
And raise the votive prayer. 

Commingling vnth the ocean's roar 
Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise, 
And soon they trust to see the winged bark 
That bears good tidings home. 

The watch-tower now in distance sinks, 
And now Galicia's mountain rocks 
Faint as the far-off clouds of evening lie, 
And now they fade away. 

Each like some moving citadel, 
On through the waves they sail sublime ; 
And now the Spaniards see the silveiy cliffs, 
Behold the ssa-gii't land ! 

O fools ! to think that ever foe 
Should triumph o'er that sen-girt land! 
O fools ! to think that ever Britain's sons 
Should wear the stranger's yoke ! 

for not in vain hath nature rear'd 
Around her coast those silvery cliffs ; 
b'ov not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves 
To guard his lavoiirite isle ! 

On come her gallant mariners ! 
What now avail Eome's boasted charms ? 
Where aro the Spaniard's vaunts of eager wratjo.^ 
His hopus of conquest now ? 


And hark ' the angry wmds arise, 
Old Ocean heaves his angry waves ; 
The winds and waves against the invaders fight, 
To guard the sea-girt land. 

Howling around his palace towers 
The Spanish despot hears the storm 
lie thinks upon his navies far away, 
And boding doubts arise. 

Long over Biscay's boisterous surge 
The watchman's aching eye shall strain! 
Long shall he gaze, but never winged bark 
Shall beai- good tidings home. 



The raven croak'd as she sat at her meal, 
And the old woman knew what he said, 

And she grew pale at the raven's tale. 
And sickeu'd and went to her bed. 

No w fetch me my children, and fetch them v.'Ith speed, 

The old woman of Berkeley said. 
The monk my son, and my daughter the nun, 

Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead. 

The monk her son, a,nd her daughter the nun, 

Their way to Berkeley went, 
And they have brought with pious thought 

The holy sacrament. 

The old woman shrielv'd as they entered her door. 

'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear, 
Now take the sacrament away 

For mercy, 'my children deal" I 


Her lip it trembled with cigony, 

Tlie sweat ran down lier brow, 
I have tortures in store for evermore;, 

Oh ! spare me my children now ! 

Away they sent the sacrament, 

The fit it left her weak, 
She look'd at her children with gliastly eyes 

And faintly struggled to speak. 

All kind of sin I have rioted in, 

And the judgment now must be, 
But I secui-ed my children's souls, 

Oh ! pray my children for me. 

I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes, 

The fiends have been my slaves, 
I have nointed myself with infant's fat, 

And feasted on rifled graves. 

And the Devil will fetch me now in fire 

My witchcrafts to atone. 
And I who have rifled the dead man's grave 

Shall never have rest in my own. 

Bless I intreat my winding sheet. 

My children I beg of you ! 
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud. 

And sprinkle my coffin too. 

And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone, 

And fasten it strong I implore 
With iron bars, and with three chains 

Chain it to the church floor. 

And bless the chains and sprinkle thciu, 

And let fifty priests stand round, 
Who night and day the mass may say 

Where I lie on the ground. 

And see that fifty choristers 

Beside the biev attend me, 
And day and nigiit by the taj^er's liglit 

Yv'ith holy hymns defend me. 


Let the church bells all both gi-eat and sraaU 

Be toU'd by night and day, 
To drive from thence the fiends who come 

To bear my body away. 

And ever have the church door barr'J 

After the even song, 
And I beseech you, children dear, 

Let the bars and bolts be strong. 

And let this be three days and nights 

My wretched corpse to save, 
Keep me so long from the fiendish throng 

And then I may rest in my grave. 

Tlie old woman of Berkeley laid her do^vn. 

And her eyes grew deadly dim. 
Short came her breath and the struggle of death 

Did loosen every limb 

They blessed the old woman's winding sheet 

With rites and prayers due, 
With holy water they sprinkled lier shroua 

And they sprinkled her coffin too. 

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stonft, 

And with iron liarr'd it down. 
And in the church with three strong chains 

They chain'd it to the groimd. 

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them, 

And fifty priests stood round, 
By night and day the mass to say 

Where she lay on the ground. 

And fifty sacred choristers 

Beside the bier attend her, 
V/lio day and night by the taper's light 

•Sliould with holy hymns delend her. 

To see the priests and choristers 

It was a goodly sight 
Each holding, as it were a staff, 

A. taper bm-ning bright. 


A.nd the church bells all, both great and small. 

Did toll so loud and long, 
And they have barr'd the cliui'ch door hai'd. 

After the even song. 

And the lu'st night the tapers' light 

Burnt steadily and clear, 
But they without a hideous rout 

Of angry fiends could hear; 

A liideous roar at the church door. 

Like a long thunder peal. 
And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung 

Louder in fearful zeal. 

Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well. 

The tapers they bui'nt bright. 
The monk her son, and her daughter the mia. 

They told theii' beads all night. 

The cock he crew, away they Hew, 

The fiends from the herald of day. 
And inidisturb'd the choristers sing. 

And the fifty priests they pray. 

The second night the tapers' light 

Burnt dismally and blue, 
And every one saw his neighbour's face 

Like a dead man's face to view. 

And yeUs and cries without arise 

That the stoutest heart might shock. 
And a deafening roar like a cataract poiu'ing 

Over a mountain rock. 

The monk and nun they told then- beads. 

As fast as they could tell. 
And aye as louder grev.' the noise 

The faster went the bell. 

Louder and louder the chorihters sung 

As they trembled more and more, 
And the lU'ty priests pray'd to Heaven for aid,— 

They never had pray'd so before. 

K 2 


The cock lie crew, away tliey flew 

The fiends from the herald of day. 
And undisturb'd the choristers smg. 

And the fifty priests they pray. 

The thh-d night came, and the tapers' flame 

A hideous stench did make, 
And they burnt as though they had been dipt 

In the buviung brimstone lake. 

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocoan, 

Grew momently more and more. 
And strokes as of a battering ram 

Did shake the strong church door. 

The bellmen they for very fear 

Could toll the beU no longer, 
And stUl as louder grew the strokes 

Theii" fear it grew the stronger. 

The monk and nun forgot theii- beads. 

They fell on the ground dismay'd. 
There was not a single saint in heaven 

Whom they did not caU to aid. 

And the choristers' song, that late was so strong. 

Grew a quaver of consternation, 
For the chiu'ch did rock, as an earthquake shock 

Uplifted its foundation. 

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast 
That shall one day wake the dead. 

The strong church door could bear no more. 
And the bolts and the bars they fled. 

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite. 

And the chorister^ faintly smig, 
And the priests dismay'd, panted and pray'd 

TUl fear froze every tongue. 

And in he came with eyes of flame 

The devdl to fetch the dead, 
And all the church with his presence glow'd 

Like a fiery furnace red. 

THE surgeon's WARNING. 275 

He laid his Land on tlie iron chains, 

And like flax they moulder'd asunder. 
And the cothn lid that was harr'd so fii-m 

He burst with his voice of thunder. 

And he bade the Old Woman of Berlceloy rise 

And come with her master away, 
And the cold sweat stood on the cold cold corpse, 

At the voice she was forced to obey. 

She rose on her fpet in her winding sheet, 

Iler dead flesh quiver'd with fear, 
And a groan like that which the old woman gave 

Never did mortal hear. 

She follow'd the fiend to the chm-ch door. 

There stood a black horse there. 
His breath was red like furnace smoke. 

His eyes like a meteor's glare. 

The fiend he flung her on the horse. 

And he leapt up before. 
And away like the lightnhig's speed they wont, 

And she was seen no more. 

They saw her no more, but her cries and shrieks 

Tor four miles round they could hear. 
And children at rest at their mother's breast, 

Started and screamed with fear. 


The doctor whisper'd to the nurse, 

And the sm-geon knew what he said. 
And he grew pale at the doctor's tale, 

And trembled in his sick bed. 

Now fetch me my brethren, and fetch them with speed, 

The surgeon afiighted said. 
The parson and the undertaker. 

Let them hasten, or I shall be dead. 


The parson and the undertaker 

They hastily came compljdng, 
And the sm-geon's apprentices ran up stairs 

When th(;y heard that their master was djing. 

The 'prentices all they enter'd the room. 

By one, by two, by tlii-ee. 
With a sly grin came Joseph in, 

First of the company. 

The surgeon swore, as they enter'd his door,— 
'Twas fearful his oaths to hear, — 

Now send tliese scoundrels to the devil, 
For God's sake, my brethi'en dear. 

He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt. 
And he wrinkled his bkick eyebrow. 

That rascal Joe would be at me, I know. 
But, zounds, let him spare me now. 

Then out they sent the 'prentices, 

The fit it left him weak ; 
He look'd at liis brothers ^v'ith ghastly eyes. 

And faintly struggled to speak. 

AU kinds of carcasses I have cut up. 
And the judgment now must be ! 

But, brothers, I took care of you. 
So praj^ take care of me ! 

I have made candles of infants' fat. 
The sextons have been ray slaves, 

I have bottled babes unborn, and di'ied 
Hearts and livers from rifled graves. 

And my 'prentices will surely come. 

And carve me bone from bone. 
And I, Avho have rilled tlie dead man's gra^e^ 

Shall never rest in my own. 

Bury me in lead when I am dead. 

My brethren, I entreat. 
And see the coifin weigh'd, I beg, 

Lest the plumber should be a cheat. 

THE surgeon's WArvNLNa 277 

And let it be solder'd closely down. 

Strong as strong can be, I implore, 
And put it in a patent coffin, 

That I may rise no more. 

If they carry me off in the patent coffin, 

Their labour will be in vain. 
Let the undertaker see it bought of the maker^ 

Who lives in St. Mai-tin's lane. 

And bury me in my brother's chui-ch, 

For that will safer be, 
And, I implore, lock the chmxh door. 

And pray talce care of the key. 

vVnd all night long let three stout men 

The vestry watch within. 
To each man give a gallon of beer 

And a keg of Holland's gin; 

Powder, and ball, and blunderbuss. 

To save me if he can, 
And eke five guineas if ho shoot ^ . 

A resurrection man. 

And let them watch me for three weeka. 

My wi-etched corpse to save, 
For then I think that I may stink 

Enough to rest in my grave. 

The surgeon laid him down in his bed. 

His eyes grew deadly dim. 
Short came his breath, and the struggle of death 

Distorted every limb. 

They put him in lead when he was dead. 

And shrouded up so neat. 
And they the leaden coffin weigh. 

Lest the plumber should be a cheat. 

They had it solder'd closely down, 

Ajid examined it o'er and o'er. 
And they put it in a patent coffin, 

That he might rise no more. 


For to carry him off in a patent coffin 

Would, they thouglit, he hut lahoiu- in vain. 

So the undertaker saw it hought of the maher 
Who hves hy St. Martin's lane. 

In his hrother's chui-ch they huiied him. 

That ?at'er he might be, 
They lock'd the door, and would not true? 

The sexton with the key. 

And three men in the vestry watch. 

To save him if they can, 
And should he come there to shoot they sweai' 

A resmTection man. 

And the first night, hy lantern light. 
Through the churchyard as tliey went, 

A guinea of gold the sexton showed 
That ]\Ir. Joseph sent. 

But conscience was tough, it was not enough. 

And their honesty never swerved, 
And they bade him go, with Mister Joe, 

To the devil as he deserved. 

So all night long, by the vestry fire. 

They quaff 'd their gin and ale, 
And they did di'ink, as you may think. 

And told full many a tale. 

The second night, by lantern light. 
Through the chiu'chyard as thej' went, 

He whisper'd anew, and show'd them two 
That Mister Joseph sent. 

The guineas were bright, and attracted their sight. 

They look'd so heavy and new. 
And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd. 

And they knew not what to do. 

But they waver 'd not long, for conscience was strong. 
And they thought they might get more; 

And they refused the gold, but not 
So rudely as before. 

THE subgeon's ayaening. 279 

So all night long, by tlie vestry fue. 

They quafF'd their gin and ale, 
And they did drink, as you may thiut. 

And told fidl many a tale. 

The third night, as by lantern light 
Through the churchyard an they went. 

He bade them see, and show'd them three 
That Mister Joseph sent. 

They look'd askance with greedy glance. 

The guineas they shone bright, 
Tor the sexton on the yellow gold 

Let fall his lantern light. 

And he look'd sly, with his roguish eye, 

And gave a well-timed wink. 
And they could not stand the sound in his hand, 

Por he made the guineas chink. 

And conscience late, that had such weight. 

All in a moment fails. 
For well they knew, that it was true 

A dead man told no tales. 

And they gave all their powder and ball. 

And took the gold so bright. 
And they di'ank their- beer and made good chee? 

Till now it was midnight. 

Then, though the key of the church doo7 

Was left with the parson his brother. 
It opened at the sexton's touch, — 

]3ecause he had another. 

And in they go \vith that villain Joe, 

To fetch the body by night. 
And all the church look'd dismally. 

By his dai'k-lantern light. 

They laid the pick-axe to the stones. 

And they moved them soon asunder. 
They shoveU'd away the harcl-prest clay. 

And came to the coffin under. 


They burst tlie patent coffin fu'st, 

And they cut through the lead, 
And they laugh'd aloud wlien they saw the ilirouii 

Because they had got at the dead. 

And they allow'd the sexton the shroud, 

And they put the coffin back, 
And nose and knees they then did squeeze 

The surgeon in a sack. 

The watchmen as they past along 

FuU four yards olf could smell, 
And a cui-se bestow'd upon the load 

So disagreeable. 

So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back, 
And they carved him bone from bone. 

But what became of the surgeon's soul 
Was never to mortal known. 



Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-lix'd eyer 

Seem a heart overcharged to express ? 
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs: 
She never complams — but her silence implies 

The composure of settled distress. 


No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek; 

Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
Tlirough her rags do the wmds of the winter blow bleak 
(hi lior poor wither 'd bosom half bare, and her cheek 

1 1 as the deathy pale hue of despair. 

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, 

Poor ]\Iary the maniac has been. 
The traveller remembers who journeyed this waj 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 

As I\[ary the maid of the inn. 



Her cheerful address filled her guests mth delight 

As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish aflright, 
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night 

When the wmd whistled down the darl-: aisle. 

She loved; and young Eichard had settled the day, 

And she hoped to be happy for life: 
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say 

That she was too ffood for his wilij. 


'Twas In autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, 

And fast were the windows and door; 
Two guests sat enjoying the ike that burnt bright, 
And smoking in silence with tranquil delight 

They listened to hear the wind roar. 

" 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fire-side. 

To hear the wind whistle without." 
"A fine night for the abbey !" his comrade replied; 
" Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried 

Who should wa,nder the ruins about. 

" I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 

The hoarse ivy shake over my head; 
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear. 
Some ugly old abbot's wliite spirit appear, — 

For this wind might awulcen the dead !" 

" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 
" That Mary would venture there now." 

"Then wager and lose !" v.-ith a sneer he replied; 

" I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, 
And fiiint if she saw a white cow." 


•■■ Will Mary this charge on her courage allov/ ?" 

His companion exclaimed with a smile; 
" I shall win, — for I know she wUl venture there now, 
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 
From the elder that gi'ows in the aisle." 

With fearless good humour did Mary comply, 

And her way to the abbey she bent ; 
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, 
And as hollowly howHng it swept through the sicy 
She sliivered Avith cold as she went. 

O'er the path so well kno-svn still proceeded the maid 
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight; 

Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid; 

Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and then- shude 
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 

AH around her was silent, save when the rude blast 

Howled dismally round the old pile; 
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she past, 
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 

Where the elder-tree srrew in the aisle. 

WeU-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near 

And hastily gathered the bough ; 
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear : 
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear, 

And her heart panted fearfully now. 


The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head. 

She listened, — nought else could ishe hear, 
The wind ceased; her heai-t sunk in her bosom with dread. 
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread 
Of footsteps approaching her near. 


Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 

She crept to conceal herself there : 
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear. 
And she saw m the moonlight two ruffians appear. 

And between them a corpse did they bear, 


Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold I 

Again the rough wind hurried by, — 
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold. 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled- 
She felt, and expected to die. 


" Curse the hat !" he exclaims; " nay, come on here, and hide 

The dead body," his conu-ade replies. 
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side- 
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied. 

And fast through the abbey she flies. 

She ran with wild speed, she rushed m at the door. 

She gazed horribly eager around. 
Then her Hmbs could support their faint burthen no more. 
And exliausted and breathless she sunk 0:1 the floor. 

Unable to utter a sound. 

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart. 

For a moment the hat met her view; — 
Her eyes from that object convulsively start, [heart 

■JxTT^ ^^'^ • ^^^' ^^^^^ ^^°^"™^' *^6" thrilled through her 
When the name of her Richard she knew ! 


■Where the old abbey stands on the common hard by. 

His gibbet IS now to be seen; 
His irons you still from the road may espy. 
The traveUer beholds them, and thinks with a siffb. 

01 poor Mary the maid of the inn. 



In Finland there is a castle whic'i is callcfl the Tfew Rock, inoalfcd 
about with a river of unsouuded depth, the water Llack, and the fifih 
therein very distasteful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, 
which foreshow either the death of the governor, or some prime oilicer 
belonging to tlie place ; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape 
of a haii^er, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water. 

It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked 
in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but slie 
was still ahve; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; 
only she had a deep prdeness on her countenance, which was tlie only 
sign of death. At length a magician coming by where she was then in 
the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, 
" Fair maids, why keep you company with this dead virgin, whom you 
suppose to be alive ?" when taking away tlie magic charm whicli wag 
tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion. 

The foUowng ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found 
in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels ; a poem by Thouiai 
Heywood, 1635. 

High on a rock whose castled shade 

Darkened the lake below, 
In ancient strength majestic stood 

The towers of Aiiinkow. 

rhe fisher in the lake below 

Durst never cast his net, 
Nor ever swallow in its wa\^e3 

Her passing wmgs would wet. 

The cattle from its ominous banks 

In wild alarm would run. 
Though parched with thirst, and faint beneath 

The summer's scorching sun. 

For sometimes when no passing breeze 

The long lank sedges waved. 
All white with foam, and heaving high 

Its deafening billows Xcived; 

All when the tempest irom its base 

The rooted pine would shake. 
The powerless storm unruffled swept 

Across the calm dead lake. 

DOOTCA. 285 

And ever then when death drew near 

The house of Arlinkow, 
Its dark unfathomed depths did send 
Strange music from below. 

The Lord of Arhnhow was old 

One only cliild had he, 
Donica was llie maiden's name, 

As fan- as fair might be. 

A bloom as bright as opening mom 

Flushed o'er her clear white cheek j 
The music of her voice was mild, 

Her full dark eyes were meek. 

Far was her beauty kno\\ai, for none 

So fair could Finland boast ; 
Her parents loved the maiden much, 

Yomig Eberhard loved her most. 

Together did they hope to tread 

The pleasant path of life, 
For now the day drew near to make 

Donica Eberhard's wife. 

The eve was fair and mild the air; 

Along the lake they stray; 
The eastern hill reflected bright 

The fading tints of day. 

And brightly o'er the water streamed 

The liquid radiance wide; 
Donica's httle dog ran on 

And gamboled at her side. 

Youth, Health, and Love bloomed on her cheek. 

Her full dark ej^es express 
In many a glance to Eberhai'd 

Her soul's meek tenderness. 

Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale 
Sighed through the long lank sedget 

The air was hushed; no httle wave 
Dimpled the water's edge. 


Sudden the unfatliomed lake sent fovtfa 
Strange music from beneath, 

And slowly o'er the waters sailed 
The solemn sounds of death. 

As the deep sounds of death arose, 

Donica's cheek grew pale, 
And in the arms ot Eberhard 

The senseless maiden fell. 

Loudly the youth in terror shi'ieked. 

And loud he called for aid, 
And with a -wild and eager look 

Gazed on the death-pale maid. 

But soon again did better thoughts 

In Eberhard arise, 
And he with trembling hope beheld 

The maiden raise her eyes. 

And on his arm reclined she moved 

With feeble pace and slow, 
And soon with strength recovered rcacheil 

The towers of Ai-lmlcow. 

Yet never to Donica's cheek 

Eeturned the lively hue; 
Her cheeks were deathy wliite, and waOj 

Her lips a hvid blue. 

Her eyes so bright and black of yore, 
AVere now more black and bright, 

And beamed strange lustre in her face 
So deadly wan and white, 

The dog that gamboled by her side. 
And loved \vith her to stray, 

Now at his altered mistress howled, 
And fled ui fear away. 

Yet did the fiiithful Eberhai-d 
Not love the maid the less; 

He gazed with sorrow, but he gaxed 
With deeper tenderness. 


And Avlicn he found her health unharmed 

He would not brook delay, 
But pressed the not unwilling maid 

To fix the bridal day. 

And when at length it came, vnth joy 

They hailed the bridal daj', 
And onward to the house of God 

They went their willing way. 

And as they at the altar stood 

And heard the sacred rite, 
The hallowed tapers dimly streamed 

A pale sulphm-eous light. 

And as the youth with holy warmth 

Her hand in his did hold, 
Sudden lie felt Donica's hand 

Grow deadly damp and cold. 

And loudly did he shriek, for lo ! 

A spu'it met his view, 
And Eberhard in the angel form 

His own Donica knew. 

That instant from her eartUy li'acio 

Howling the demon fled. 
And at the side of Eberhard 

The living- form fell dead. 


Divers princes and noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair 
palace, which was situate upon the river Ehine, they belield a boat or 
small barge make toward the sliore, di-awTi by a swan in a sih'er 
chain, the one end fastened about her neck, the other to tlie vessel; 
and in it an unknown soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful 
presence, who stept upon the shore ; which done, the boat guided by 
the swan left him, and floated down the river. TJiis man fell after- 
wards in league with a fair gentlewoman, married her, and by her Iiad 
many cliildren. After some years the same swan came \vith the same 
barge unto the same place ; the soldier entering into it was carried 
tlience the way he came, left wife, children and family, and was never 
Been amongst them after. 

Bkight on the mountain's heathy slope 

The day's last splendours shine, 
And rich with many a radiant hue, 

Gleam gaily on the Rhine. 


And many a one from Waldlmrst's walls 

Along the river strolled, 
As ruflling o'er the pleasant stream 

The evening gales came cold. 

So as they straj'ed, a swan they sav/ 

Sail stately up and strong, 
And by a silver chain she drew 

A little boat along; 

Whose streamer to the gentle breeze 
Long floating fluttered light, 

Beneath whose crimson canopy 
There lay reclmed a knight. 

With arching crest and sweUing bitissf; 

On sailed the stately swan, 
And lightly up the parting tide 

The little boat came on. 

And onward to the shore they di'cw. 
And leapt to land the hnight, 

And down the stream the httle boat 
Fell soon beyond the sight. 

Was never a knight in Waldlim'st's walls 
Could with this stranger vie, 

Was never j^outh at aught esteemed 
Wlien Rudiger was by. 

Was never a maid in Waldhm'st's walls 
Might match with Margaret, 

Her check was fair, her eyes were dark, 
Her silken locks like jet. 

And many a rich and noble youth 
Had strove to v/in the fail'; 

But never a rich and noble j^outh 
Could rival Eudiger. 

At every tilt and tourney he 

Still bore away the prize. 
For knightly feats superior still- 

And knightly coui'tesies. 


His gallant feats, his looks, his love, 

Soou won the willing fair; 
And soon did ^Margaret become 

The wife of Rudiger. 

Like morning dreams of happiness 

Fast rolled the months away; 
For he was hind, and she was kind, 

And who so blest as they ? 

Yet Riidiger would sometimes sit 

Absorbed in sUent thought, 
And his dark downward eye would seem 

With anxious meaning fraught. 

But soon ho raised his looks again 

And smiled his cares away; 
And, mid the hall of gaiety 

Was none like him so gay. 

And onward rolled the waning months. 

The hour appointed came. 
And Margaret her Rudiger 

Hailed with a fiither's name. 

But silently did Rudiger 

The little infant see; 
And darkly on the babe he gazed,~- 

A gloomy man was he. 

And when to bless the little babe 

The holy father came. 
To cleanse the stains of sin away 

In Clu'ist's redeeming name, 

Then did the cheek of Rudiger 

Assume a death-pale hue. 
And on his clammy forehead stood 

The cold convulsive dew; 

And faltering in his speech, he badt 

The pi-iest the rites delay, 
Till he could, to right health restored. 

Enjoy the festive day. 


Wlien o'er the many-tiuted sl^cy 

He saw the day decline, 
He called upon his Margaret 

To walk beside the Ehinc. — 

" And we will take the little babe. 
For soft the breeze that blows, 

And the mild murmurs of the stream 
Will lull him to repose." 

A.nd so together foiih they went, 
The evening breeze was mild, 

And Eudiger upon his anu 
Pillowed the httle chUd. 

And many a one from Waldhurst's wa'l*; 

Along the banks did roam; 
But soon the evening wind came cold, 

And all betook them home. 

Yet Rudiger, in silent mood 
Along the banks would roam. 

Nor aught could Margaret prevail 
To tiu-n his footsteps home. 

" Oh turn thee, turn thee, Eudiger, 

The rising mists behold, 
The evening wind is damp and chill. 

The little babe is cold!" 

" Now hush thee, hush thee, Margai'ct, 
The mists will do no harm. 

And from llio wind the little babe 
Lies shelicred on my aim." 

" Oh, turn thee, turn thee, Eudiger, 
Why oinvard wilt thou roam P 

The moon is up, the night is cold, 
.And we are far from home." 

He answered not; for now he saw 
A swan come sailing strong. 

And by a silver chain she di'ew 
A little boat alonjr. 


To sJdore tHey cam(>, and to the boat 

Past leapt he with tlio child. 
And in leapt Margaret — hreathlesi aow. 

And pale with fear, and wild. 

With arching crest and swclluig hreasl 

On sailed the stately swan, 
And lightly down the rapid tide 

The little boat v.Tnt on. 

The full orb'd-moon, that beamed around 

Pale splendour through the night, 
Cast tlrrough the crimson canopy 

A dim, discoloured light. 

And swiftly down the hurrying strearo 

In silence still they sail, 
And the long streamer fluttering fast. 

Flapped to the heavj" gale, — 

And he was mute in sullen thouglit, 

And she was mute witli fear. 
Nor sound but of the parting tide 

Broke on the listening ear. 

The little babe began to cry, 

Then Mai-garet raised her head. 
And Avith a quick and hollow voice, 

" Give me the child," she said. 

" Now hush thee, hush thee, Margoi'et^ 

Nor my poor heart distress — 
I do but pay perforce the price 

Of former happmess; 

And hush thee, too, my little babei 

Thj- cries so feeble cease ! 
Lie still, lie still; — a little while 

And thou shalt be at peace." 

So as he spake to land they di-ew, 

And swift he stept on shore. 
And him behind did ]\Iarg;u-et 

Close follow evermore. 


It was a place all desolate, 
Nor house nor tree was there. 

And there a rocky mountain rose, 
Barren, and bleak, and bare. 

And at its base a cavern yawned, 
No eye its depth nii^ht view, 

For in the moonbeam shining round 
That darlcness darlcer grew. 

Cold hoiTor crept tli rough Margaret's blood, 
Her heart it paused with fear, 

Wlien Rudiger approached the cave. 
And cried, " Lo, I am here !" 

A deep sepulchral sound the cave 

Eetui-ned, " Lo, I am here !" 
And black from out the cavern gloom 

Two giant arms appear. 

And Rudiger approached and held 

Tlie little infant nigh; 
Then Margaret shrieked, and gathered then 

New powers from agony. 

And round the baby fast and close 
Her trembling arms she folds, 

And with a strong convulsive grasp 
The little infant holds. 

" Now help me, Jesus !" loird she cries, 

And loud on God she calls; 
Then from the grasp of Rudiger 

The little infant falls. 

And loud he shrieked, for now his framo 
Tlie huge black arms clasped roimd, 

And dragged the wretched Rudiger 
Adown the dark profound. 




** Now which is the voad across the common. 

Good womau ! hi pity declai-e; 
No path can I trace, for the night is dark, 
And I fear me, before the far turnpike I marK, 

Seme grim-visaged ghost will appear*." 

" The ghost never wallcs till the clock strilies twelve. 

And this is the first of the night," 
Cried the v.'oman. "Now, why dost thou look at me so? 
And why do thine eyes so feiuiully glow ? 

Good stranger, forbear thy ali'right. 

" I teU thee that across the conimon. 

This cart-track thy horse must pursue, 
Till close by thy feet two gibbets thou meet, 
"Where the rains and the tempests the highwayman beat, 

That a traveller once mm'der'd like you." 

The horseman replied, " I have no terror 

Of men who in midnight plan; 
But a ghost that pops on one before or behind. 
And around him sees clearlj' while mortals are blind, — ■ 

Ay, that tries the heai't of the man. 

" Is there no road but by those gibbets ?'' 

" No road," the woman repHed. 
" But though with the wind each murderer swings 
They both of them are harmless things, 

And so are the ravens beside." 

" What ! are there ravens there ? — those creatures 

That are so black and blue ! 
But, are they ravens ? I inquu'e, 
For I have heard by the winter's fire. 

That phantoms the dead pursue." 

The woman replied, " They are night-raveus 

That pick the dead men's eyes ; 
And they cry qua, Avith theu- hollow jawj 
Methinks I one this moment saw ! 

To the banquet at hand he flies. 


" Now fare thee well !" The traveller silent. 

Whilst terror consumed his soul. 
Went musing on. Tlie night was still. 
And every star had drunk his fill 

At the brim of oblivion's bowl. 

And now he near to the gibbets approach'd ! 

The black men waved in the air; 
He raised his head, and cast a glance, 
Yet heeded them not, though they seem'd to dance, 

For he determined not to fear. 

Wlierofore, he cried, sliould men incline 

To fear where no danger is found ! 
He scarce had said, when in the dark night. 
Beside him appear'd a spirit in white ! 

He trembled, and could not look round. 

He gailop'd away ! the spii'it pursued ! 

And the murderer's ii-ons they screak ! 
The gibbets are past, and now fast and more fast, 
The horseman and spirit outstrip the loud blast, 

Though neither have coui-age to speak. 

Now both on the verge of the common arrive. 

Where a gate the free passage denied: 
The horseman his arm outstretch'd to expand 
The gate to admit him, when cold o'er his hand. 
The mouth of the spuit did glide. 

He started ! and swift through the still darker lane 

Gailop'd fast fi-om the being he fear'd; 
But yet, as the shadow the substance pursues. 
The spirit behind, by a side-glance he views, 
And more luminous now it appeai''d ! 

The turnpike he reach'd; " Oh, tell me," he cried, 

" I can neither look round nor go on; 
What spirit is this which has followed me here 
From the common ? Good master, I dreadfully fearj 
Speak ! speak ! or my sense will bs gone ! 


" All, Jenny !" he cried, " thou crafty old jade ! 

Is it thee ? I'll beat thy bones bare. 
Good gentlennan, fear not; no spirit is nigh, 
Which has foUow'd you here from the common hard hy, 

Tis only old Gafler's grey mare !" 


"While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an Iionovt liormit uulccown 
to him, came and told hun the great evils lie brought on Christendom by 
Ids unjust ambitiou, who usurped the kingdom of France, against al) 
manner of right, and contrary to the will of God ; wherefore in his holy 
name he threatened him with a severe and sudden punishment, if he 
desisted not from liis enterprise. Henry took tliis exhortation either as 
an idle whimsy, or a suggestion of the i)aupliin's, and was but the more 
confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed (lie threatening; 
for within some few mouths after, he was smitten with a strange and 
incurable disease. — Mezeray. 

He past unquestioned through the camp, 

Their heads the soldiers bent 
In silent reverence, or begg'd 

A blessing as he went; 
And so the hermit past along, 

And reach'd the royal tent. 

King Henry sate in his tent alone, 

The map before him lay. 
Fresh conquests he was pjannmg there 

To grace the futiu'e day. 

King Henry lifted up his eyes 

The intruder to behold, 
With reverence he the hermit saw, 

Eor he was very old; 
His look was gentle as a saint's. 

And yet his eye was bold. 

Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs 

That thou hast done this land; 
King, repent m time, for know 

The judgment is at hand. 


I have past forty years of peace 
Besicle the river Bhiise, 

But what a weight of woe hast thou 
Laid on my latter days. 

I used to see along the stream. 
The white sail sailing down, 

That wafted food in better times 
To yonder peaceful town. 

Henry ! I never now behold 
The white sail sailing down; 

Famine, disease, and death, and thoU; 
Destroy that wretclied town. 

I used to hear the traveller's voice. 

As here he past along; 
Or maiden, as she loiter'd home, 

Singing her even song. 

I never hear the traveller's voice, 

In fear he hastens by; 
But I have heard the village maid 

In vain for succour cry. 

I used to see the youths row here, 
And watch the dripping oar, 

As pleasantly their viols' tones 
Came soilened to the shore. 

it-^iig Henry, many a blacken'd corpsy 
I now see floating down ! 

Thou bloody man ! repent in time. 
And leave this leaguer'd town. 

I shall go on. King Heniy cried, 
And conquer this good hind: 

Seest thou not, hermit, that the Lord 
Has given it to my hand? 

The hermit heard King Henry speak; 

And angrily look'd down ; 
His face was gentle, and for that 

More solemn was his fi'own. 


What, if no mli'acle from liea\'en 

The murderer's arm control, 
Think you for that the weight of blood 

Lies hghter on his soul ? 

Thou conqueror King, repent in time, 

Or dread the coming woe ; 
For, Henry, thou hast heard the thi'eat, 

And soon shalt feel the blow. 

King Henry forced a careless smile. 

As the hermit went his way; 
But Henr}'- scon remembered him. 

Upon his dying day. 



If thy debtor be poor, old Christoval cried, 

Exact not too hardly thy due. 
For he who preserves a poor man from want 

May preserve him from wickedness too. 

If thy neighbour should sin, old Christoval cried. 

Never, never unmerciful be ! 
For remember, it is by tbe mercy of God, 

That thou ai-t not as wicked as he. 

At sixty and seven the liope of heaven 
Is my comfort, old Christoval cried. 

But if God had cut me off in my youth, 
I might not have gone there when I died. 

You shall have the farm, young Christoval, 

My good master Henrique said, 
But a surety provide, in whom I can confide, 

Thait duly the rent shall be paid. 


I was poor, and I liad not a friend on earth. 

And I knew not what to say; 
We stood by the porch of St. Andres' church 

And it was on St. Isidi-o's day. 

Accept for my sui-ety St. Isidro, 

I ventured to make reply; 
The saint in heaven may perhaps be my friend 

But fi-iendless on earth am I. 

We entered the church and came to his grave, 

And I fell on my bended knee; 
I am fi-iendless, holy St. Isidro, 

And I ventm-e to call upon thee. 

I caU upon thee my surety to be, 

Thou knowest my honest intent, 
And if ever I break my plighted Avord 

Let thy vengeance make me repent ! 

I was idle; the day of payment came on. 
And I had not the money in store, 

I fear'd the wrath of St. Isidro, 
But I fear'd Henrique more. 

On a dark, dark night I took my flight, 

And hastily fled away. 
It chanced by St. Andi-es' chm'ch 

The road I had chosen la3\ 

As I pass'd the door I thought what I had swore 

Upon St. Isidro's day, 
And I seem'd to fear because he was near. 

And faster I hasten'd away. 

So all night long I hurried on. 

Pacing fuU many a mile, 
I knew not his avenging hand 

Was on me all the while. 

Weary I was, and safe I thought; 

But when it was daylight 
I had, I found, been running round 

And round the church all night. 


I shook lilce a palsy and fell on my knees, 

And for pardon devoutly I pray'd: 
When my master came up — ^What ! Christoval, 

You are here hetimes, he said. 

i have been idle, good master ! I cried. 

Good master, and I have been wrong; 
And I have been running round the chui'ch 

In penance aU night long. 

If thou hast been idle, Ilem-ique said. 

Go home and thy fiudt amend; 
I mil not oppress thee, Chi'istoval, 

May the Saint thy labour* befriend. 

Homeward I went a penitent. 

And I never was idle more; 
St. Isidro blest my industry 

As he punish'd my fault before. 

VVlien my debtor was poor, old Christoval said, 

I have never exacted my due, 
I remembered Hem'ique was good to me. 

And copied his goodness too. 

When my neighbour has sinn'd, old Christoval said, 

I have ever forgiven his sin, 
For I thought of the night by St. iVndres' church, 

And remember'd what I might have been. 


It was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone by. 

And the bloom of her beauty was tied, 
'Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam'd in her eye. 
And all but the monarch disgusted descry 

The ai't that had tinged her cheek red. 

Yet he thought Avith Agatha none might compare 
That kings might be proud of her chain; 

The com-t was a desert if she were not there. 

She only was lovely, she only was fair. 
Such dotage possess'd Charlemagne. 


The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid. 

Alike this their rival detest; 
And the good old archbishop who ceased to uptraid 
Shook his grey head in sorrow, and silently pray'd 

To sing her the requiem of rest. 

A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all, 

For Agatha sickens and dies. 
And now they are ready with bier and v/ith pall. 
The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall, 

And the bell tolls long through the skies. 

They came, but he sent them in anger away. 
For she should not be buried, he said ; 

And despite of all counsel, for many a day, 
Array'd in her costly apparel she lay. 

And he would go sit by the dead. 

The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain. 

The army in vain ask their lord; 
The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain, 
Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemagne, 

And still he unsheathes not the sword. 

The soldiers they clamour, the priests bend in prayer, 

In the quiet retreats of the cell; 
The physicians to counsel together repair. 
They pause and they ponder, at last they declare 

That his senses are bound by a spell. 

With relics protected, and confident grown, 

And telling devoutly his beads, 
The archbishop prepares him, and when it was Ivnowu 
That the king for awhile left the body alone. 

To search for the spell ho proceeds. 

Now careful he searches with tremi\lous haste 

For the spell that bewitches the king; 
And under the tongue for security placed, 
Its margin with mystical characters faced. 
At lenjjth he discovens a rin". 

p. 301. 



Exulting lie selz'd it and liasten'd away, 

The monarch re-entered the room; 
The enchantment was ended, and suddenly gay, 
He bade the attendants no longer delay 

But Lear her with speed to the tomb. 

Now merrmient, joyaunce, and feasting again 

Enlivened the palace of Aix; 
And now by his heralds did king Charlemaguo 
Invite to his palace the courtier train 

To hold a high festival day. 

And anxiously now for the festival day 

The highly-born maidens prepare; 
And now all apparell'd in costly array, 
Exulting they come to the palace of Aix, 

Young and aged, the brave and the fair. 

Oh ! happy the damsel who 'mid her compeers 

For a moment engaged the kmg's eye ! 
Now glowing wth hopes and now fever'd with fears. 
Each maid or triumphant or jealous appears 

As noticed by him or past by. 

And now as the evening approach'd, to the ball 

In anxious suspense they advance; 
Each hoped the king's choice on her beauties might fallj 
When, lo ! to the utter confusion of all, 

He ask'd the archbishop to dance. 

The damsels they laugh and the barons they stare, 

'Twas mirth and astonishment all; 
And the archbishop started and muttered a prayer, 
And, wi-oth at receiving such mockery there, 

Withdi'ew him in haste irom the hall. 

The moon dimpled over the water with light 

As he wandered along the lake side, 
Wlien, lo ! where beside him the king met his sight, 
" Oh, turn thee, archbishop, my joy and deUght ! 

Oh, turn thee, my charmer !" he cried. 


" Oh come where the feast, and the dance, and the son^ 

Invite thee to mirth and to love; 
Or at this happy moment, away from the throngs. 
To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along — 

The moon never pierces that grove." 

Amazement and anger the prelate possest, 

With terror i:is accents he heard, 
Then Charlemagne warmly and eagerly prest 
The archbishop's old withered hand to his breast. 

And kiss'd his old gray grizzle beard. 

"Let us well, then, these fortunate moments employ !''* 

Cried the monarch with passionate tone: 
" Come away, then, dear charmer — mj'' angel — ^my joy. 
Nay, struggle not now — 'tis in vain to be coy — 
And remember that we are alone." 

"Blessed Maiy, protect me!" the archbishop cried j 

" Wliat madness is come to the king !" 
In vain to escape from the monarch he tried, 
Wlien luckily he on his finger espied 

The glitter of Agatha's ring. 

Ovorjoy'd, the old prelate remembered the spell, 

And far in the lake flung the ring; 
The waters closed round it, and wond'rous to tell, 
Eeleased from the cursed enchantment of heU, 

His reason returned to the king. 

But he built him a palace there close by the bay. 

And there did he 'stablish his reign; 
And tlie traveller who will, may behold at this day 
A monument now in the ruins at Aix 

Of the spell that possess'd Charlemagne. 




CoBNELius AoEirPA went out one day. 
His study he loclc'd ere he went away, 
And he gave the key of the door to his wife. 
And charged her to keep it lock'd on her life. 

And if any one ask my study to see, 
I charge j'ou trast them not witli the key, 
Wlioever may heg, and entreat, and implore, 
On your life let nobody enter that door. 

There lived a young man in the house who in v:un 
Access to that study had strove to obtain. 
And he begg'd and pray'd tlie books to see. 
Tin the fooUsh woman gave him the key. 

On the study-table a book there lay. 
Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day. 
The letters were written with blood withm. 
And the leaves were made of dead men's skin. 

And these horrible leaves of magic between 
Were the ughest pictures that ever were seen. 
The likeness of things so foul to behold 
That what they were is not fit to be told. 

The young man, he began to read 
He knew not what, but he would proceed. 
When there was heard a sound at the door 
Which as he read on grew more and more. 

And more and more the knockmg grew. 

The young man knew not what to do; 

But trembling in fear he sat within, 

Tin the door was broke and the Devil came in. 

Two hideous lioms on his head he had got. 
Like iron heated nine times red hot; 
The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue. 
And his tail like a fiery serpent grew. 


What wouldst thou with me ? the wicked one crle'i. 
But not a Avord the j'oung man repUed ; 
Every hair on his head was standuig upright, 
Aiid his limbs like a palsy shook with afl'right. 

Wliat wouldst thou with me ? cried the author <>! ill, 
But the Avretched young man was silent still j 
Not a word had his lips the power to say, 
And his marrow seem'd to be melting away, 

"Wlmt wouldst thou with me? the thu'd time he mnti^ 

And a flash of lightning came from his eyes. 

And he lilted his grilHn claW in the air, 

And the young man had not strength for a prayer. 

His eyes with a furious joy were possest 

As he tore the young man's heart from his hreaKt, 

He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prej"^, 

And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away. 

Henceforth let all young men take heed 
How in a conjurer's books they read. 


The maiden through the favouring n !g 
From Granada took her flight, 
She bade her father's house farewell. 
And fled away with Manuel. 

No Moorish maid might hope to vie 
With LaDa's cheek or Laila's eye. 
No maiden loved with purer truth. 
Or ever loved a loveher youth. 

In fear they fled across the plain 
The father's -wTath, the captive's chaia. 
In hope to Murcia on they flee, 
To peace, and love, and liberty. 

THE lovek's eock. 305 

Aud now they reach the mountain's hcightj 
And she was weary with her flight, 
She laid her liead on ]\Ianners breast. 
And pleasant was the maiden's rest. 

But while she slept, the passing gale 
Waved the maiden's Howing veil. 
Her father, as he crost the height. 
Saw the veil so long and white. 

Young Manuel started froai liis sleep. 
He saw them hastening up the steep. 
And Laila shriek'd, and desperate now 
They climb'd the precipice's brow. 

They saw him raise his angiy hand. 
And follow with Iris ruffian band. 
They saw them climbing up the steep, 
And heard his cm-ses loud and deep. 

Then Manuel's heai-t grew wild with wee, 
He loosen'd crags and roU'd below. 
He loosen'd rocks, for Manuel strove 
For life, and liberty, and love. 

The ascent was steep, the rock was high, 
The Moors they durst not ventm-e nigh, 
The fugitives stood safely there, 
They stood in safety and despair". 

The Moorish chief, unmoved could see 
His daughter bend the suppliant knee; 
He heard his child for pardon plead, 
^Vnd swore the Christian slave shovdd bleed. 

He bade the archers bend the bow, 
And make the Clu-istian fall below. 
He bade the archers aim the dart, 
And pierce the maid's apostate heai-t. 

The archers aim'd their arrows there. 
She clasp'd yomig Manuel in despair, 
" Death, Manuel, shall set us hee I 
Then leap below, and die with me." 

L 2 


He clasp'd her close and groan'd farewell. 
In one another's arms they fell; 
They leapt adown the craggy side, 
In one another's ai-ms they died. 

And side \>j side they there ai"e laid. 
The Chi-istian youth and Moorish maid, 
But never cross was planted there, 
To mai-k the victims of despair. 

Yet every Miu-cian maid can tell 
Where Laila lies who loved so well. 
And every j-^outh who passes ther^ 
Says for Manuel's soul a prayer. 


It was a little island where he dwelt, 

A solitary islet, bleak and bare, 

Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots 

Its gray stone sm-face. Never mariner 

Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast. 

Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark 

Anchored beside its shore. It was a place 

Befitting well a rigid anchoret, 

Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys. 

And piu-poses of life; and he had dwelt 

Many long yeai's upon that lonely isle; 

For in ripe manhood he abandoned ai-ms, 

Honours and friends and country and the world. 

And had grown old in soUtude. That isle 

Some solitaiy man in other times 

Had made his dweUing-place; and Henry found 

The little chapel which his toil had built 

Now by the storms unroofed ; his bed of leaves 

Wind-scattered; and his grave o'ergro'i\Ti with grass 

And tliistles, whose white seeds, winged in vain. 

Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 

So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof, 

Clear'd the grey lichens fi'om the altar-stone. 

And underneath a rock that shelter'd him 

From the sea-blast, he built his hersdtage. 


The peasants fi-om the shore Avould bring him food. 

And heg his prayers ; hut human converse else 

He knew not in that utter solitude. 

Nor ever visited the haunts of men. 

Save when some sinful %\Tetch on a sick bed 

Implored his blessing and his aid in deuth. 

That simmions he delaj-ed not to obey. 

Though the night tempest or autumnal vnnd 

Maddened the waves; and though the mariner. 

Albeit relying on his saintly load. 

Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived 

A most austere and self-denying man, 

Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulncsE, 

Had worn him down, and it was pain at last 

To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves 

And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the lesi. 

Though with reluctance of infirmity, 

Kose he at midnight from his bed of leaves. 

And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal. 

More self-condenming fervour, raised his voice 

For pai'don for that sin, 'tiU that the sin 

Eepented was a joy like a good deed. 

One night upon the shore his chapel bell 

Was heai'd ; the air was calm, and its far- sounds 

Over the water came, distinct and loud. 

Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear 

Its toll iiTegulai-, a monk ai'ose. 

The boatmen bore him wdlingly across. 

For well the hermit Hemy was beloved. 

He hastened to the chapel; on a stone 

Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff, and dead. 

The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet 

The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light. 


There was an old man breaking stcnea 

To mend the tm-npike Avay; 
He sate him down beside a brook 
And out his bread and cheese he toak. 
For now it was mid-day. 


He leant his back against a post, 

His feet the brook ran by; 
And there were water-cresses growing. 
And pleasant was the water's flowing. 

For he was hot and dry. 

A soldier with his knapsack on. 

Came travelling o'er the down; 
The sun was strong and he was tiiei: 
And he of the old man inquii'ed 
How fai- to Bristol town. 

Half an hour's walk for a young man. 

By lanes and fields and stiles; 
But you the foot-path do not know, 
Ar»i if along the road you go, 
Why then 'tis tlu-ee good miles. 

The soldier took his knapsack oflf. 

For he was hot and dry; 
And out his bread and cheese he tookj 
And he sat down beside the brook 

To dine in company. 

Old fi-iend ! in faith, the soldier says, 

I envy you almost; 
My shoulders have been sorely prest. 
And I should like to sit and rest 

My back against that post. 

In such a sweltering day as this, 

A knapsack is the devil ! 
And if on t'other side I sat, 
It would not only spoil our chat. 

But make me seem imcivil. 

The old man laugh'd and moved — I 7(iai' 
It were a great aiTu'd-chair ! 

But this may help a man at need! 

And yet it was a cursed deed 
That ever brought it there. 


There's a. poor girl lies buried here 

Beneath this very place. 
The earth upon her corpse is prest, 
The stake is di-iven into her breast. 

And a stone is on her face. 

The soldier had but just leant back. 

And now he half rose up. 
There's sure no harm in dining here. 
My friend ? and yet to be smcere 

I should not like to sup. 

God rest her ! she is still enough 

Who sleeps beneath m}' feet ! 
The old man cried. No harm I trow 
She ever did herself, though now 

She lies where four roads meet. 

I have past by about that hour 

"When men are not most brave ; 
It did not make n\y heart to fail, 
And I have heai-d the nightingale 

Sing sweetly on her grave. 

I have past by about that hour 

When ghosts theu' freedom have; 
But there was nothing here to fright, 
And I have seen the glow-worm's light 

Shine on the poor girl's grave. 

There's one who like a Christian lies 

Beneath the church-tree's shade; 
I'd rather go a long mile round 
Than pass at evening through the ground 

Wliererii that man is laid. 

There's one who in the cliurchj^ard lies 

For whom the bell did toU ; 
He lies in consecrated ground. 
But for all the wealth in Bristol town 
I would not be with his soul ! 


Didst see a house below the hill, 

Which the winds and the rains destroy ? 

'Twas then a farm where he did dwell. 

And I remember it fuU well 
When I was a gro\ving boy. 

And she was a poor parish girl 
Who came up from the west; 
From service hard she ran away. 
And at that house in evil day. 
Was taken in to rest. 

The man he was a wicked man. 

And an evil life he led ; 
Eage made his cheek grow deadly white;, 
And his gray eyes were large and light. 

And in anger they grew red. 

The man was bad, the mother worse. 

Bad fruit of a bad stem; 
'Twould make your hair to stand on end 
If I should teU to you, my fi-iend, 

The things that were told of them ! 

Didst see an out-house, standing by ? 

The walls alone remain; 
It was a stable then, but now 
Its mossy roof has fallen through 

AH rotted by the rain. 

The poor girl she had served with them 

Some half-a-year or more, 
Wlien she was found hung up one day 
Stiff as a corpse and cold as clay 

Behind that stable door ! 

It is a wild and lonesome place. 

No hut or house is near; 
Should one meet a murderer there alone 
'Twere vam to scream, and the dying groan 

Would never reach mortal ear. 


And there were strange reports abontj 

But still the coroner found 
That she by her own hand had died. 
And should buried bo by the wayside. 

And not in Chi'istian ground. 

This was the very place he chose. 

Just where these four roads met. 
And I was one among the throng 
That hither followed them along, 

I shall never the sight forget ! 

They carried her upon a board, 

In the clothes in which she died; 
I saw the cap blow off her head. 
Her face was of a dark, dark red. 

Her eyes were starting wide: 

I think they could not have been closed 

So widely did they strain. 
I never saw so di'eadful a sight, 
And it often made me wake at niglit. 

For I saw her face again. 

They laid her here where four roads meet. 

Beneath this very place. 
The earth upon her corpse was prest. 
This post is di'iven into her breast. 

And a stone is on her face. 


I know not whether it be worth reporting, that there is, in Cornwall, 
near the parish of St. I^eots, a well arched over wtli the robes of four 
Iciuds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, dedicated to St. Kcyne. Thtf 
reported vu-tue of the water is tliis, that whetlier husband or wife coiue 
first to drink thereof, they get tlie mastery thereby. — Fulle.r, 

A "WELL there is in the west-country. 

And a clearer one never was seen; 
There is not a wife in the west-country 

But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. 


Ad oali: and an elm tree stand beside. 
And Lehind does an ash tree grow. 

And a willow from the Lank above 
Droops to tlie water below. 

A traveller oamc to the well of St. Keyne; 

Pleasant it was to his eye, 
For from cock-crow lie had been travelling 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear. 

For thirsty and hot was he, 
And he sat down upon the banlc, 

Under the wiUow tree. 

There came a man from the neighbouring tow.; 

At the well to till his pail, 
On the well-side he rested it, 

And bade the stranger had. 

"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger F quoth he, 

For an if thou hast a wife, 
■riie happiest draught thou hast draidc this da}' 

That ever thou didst in thj' life. 

Or has your good woman, if one j'ou have. 

In Cornwall ever been ? 
?or an if she have, I'U venture my lifs 

She has di-ank of the well of St. Keyr.e. 

I have left a good woman wlio never was here, 

The stranger he made reply; 
But that my di-aught should be better for that, 

I pray you answer me why. 

St. Keync, quoth the countrj-man, many a time 

Drank of this crystal well. 
And before the angel summoned lier 

She laid on the water a spell. 

If the husband of this gifted well 

Shall drink before his wife, 
A happy man thenceforth is he. 

For he shall be master for life. 


But if the wife sliould drink of it fti"st, 

God help the husband then ! 
The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the waters again. 

You di'ank of the well, I warrant, betimes ? 

He to the countryman said. 
But the countryman smUed as the stranger spake. 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done. 

And left my wife in the porch. 
But i'faith she had been Aviser than me, 

For she took a bottle to church. 


rbe stor3' of the Pious Painter is related in the Fabliaux of Le Grand 

There once was a painter in Catholic days, 

Like Job, who eschewed all evil; 
Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze 
With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise 

And delight was in painting the devil. 

They were angels, compared to the devils he di-ew, 

Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell; 
Such burning hot ej^es, such a damnable hue ! 
You could even smell brimstone, their breath was so blue, 

He painted the devil so well. 

And now had the artist a picture begun, 

'Twas over the Vu'gin's clmrch door; 
She stood on the dragon embracing her son, 
Many deA^ils already the artist had done. 

But this must out-do all before. 

The old dragon's imps, as they fled through the air. 

At seeing it paused on the wing, 
For he had the likeness so just to a hair, 
That thej' came as Apollj^on himself had been there. 

To pay their respects to their king. 


Every child at beholding it, shivered with dread. 

And scream'd as he turn'd away quick. 
Not an old woman saw it, but raismg her head, 
Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wi-inkles, and saH, 
God keep me from ugly Old Nick ! 

Wliat the painter so earnestly thought on by day. 

He sometimes would dream of by night; 
But once he was startled, as sleeping he lay, 
*Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey 
That the devil himself was in sight. 

You rascally dauber ! old Beelzebub cries. 

Take heed how you wrong me again ! 
Though your caricatures for myself I despise. 
Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes, 

Or see if I thi-eaten in vam ! 

Now the painter was bold, and religious beside. 

And on faith he had certain rehauce; 
So earnestly he all his coimtenance eyed, 
And thank'd him for sittmg, with Catholic pride, 

And sturdily bade him defiance. 

Betimes in the morning the painter arose. 

He is ready as soon as 'tis light. 
Every look, every line, every feature he knows, 
'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labours he goes. 

And he has the old Wicked One quite. 

Happy man ! he is sure the resemblance can't fail. 

The tip of the nose is red hot, 
There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale.- 
And that the identical cui'l of liis tail — 

Not a mark, not a claw is forgot. 

He looks and retouches again with delight, 

'Tis a portrait complete to liis mind ! 
He touches again, and again feeds his sight. 
He looks round for applause, and he sees with aifrighfc, 

The origmial standing belirnd. 


Fool ! idiot ! old Beelzebub griim'd as he spolce, 

ibid stampt on the scaflold in ire. 
The painter grew pale, for it knew it no joke, 
'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke. 

The devil could wish it no higher. 

Help — ^help me ! O Mary ! he cried in alarm. 

As the scaffold simk under his feet. 
From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm, 
She caught the good painter, she saved him from hanii, 

There were hundi-eds who saw in the street. 

The old di-agon fled when the wonder he spied. 

And cursed lois ovm fruitless endeavour. 
While the painter caU'd after his rage to deride. 
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph and cried, 

I'll paint thee more ugly than ever ! 


The painter so pious all praise had acquired. 

For defymg the mahce of hell ; 
The monies the unerrmg resemblance admired: 
Not a lady lived near but her portrait desired 

From one who succeeded so well. 

One there was to be painted the number among 

Of leatures most fair to behold; 
The comitry around of fair Marguerite rung, 
Marguerite she was lovely, and lively, and young. 

Her husband was ugly and old. 

b painter, avoid her ! painter, take care ! 

For Satan is watchful for you ! 
fake heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare. 
The net is made ready, painter, bewai-e 

Of Satan and Marguerite too. 

She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head 

On the artist she fixes her eyes; 
The colom's are ready, the canvas is spread. 
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red. 

And the features of beauty arise. 


lie is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue I 

There's a look that he cannot express: — 
His colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue. 
More and more on the lady he fixes his \'ie\v. 
On the canvas he looks less and less. 

In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more, 
And that look that lair jiarguerite gave ! 
l\![any devils the artist had painted of j'ore. 
But he never attempted an angel beibre — • 
St. Anthony help him and save ! 

He yielded, alas ! for the truth must be told. 

To the woman, the tempter, and fate. 
It was settled the lady so fair to behold, 
Should elope from her husband so ugly and old. 
With the painter so pious of late ! 

Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete. 

To the husband he makes the scheme known; 
Night comes, and the lovers impatiently meet, 
Together they fly, they are seized in the street. 
And m prison the painter is thrown. 

With repentance, his only companion, he lies. 

And a dismal companion is she ! 
On a sudden he saw the old serpent arise. 
Now you villanous dauber ! old Beelzebub cries. 

You are paid for j'our insults to me ! 

But my tender heart it is easy to move, 

If to what I propose you agree; 
That ])ieture, — be just! the resemblance improve. 
Make a handsonier portrait, your chains I'll remove, 

And you shall this instant be fi-ee. 

Overjoyed, the conditions so easj' he hears, 
I'll make j'ou quite handsome ! he said, 
He said, and his chain on the devil appears. 
Released from his prison, released from his feaxs. 
The painter is snug in his bed. 


At mom he arises, composes his looJc, 

And proceeds to his work as before; 
The people beheld him, the culprit they took, 
They thought that the painter his prison had broke 

Ajid to prison they led him once more. 

They open the dungeon, behold in his place. 

In the corner old Beelzebub lay. 
He smirks and he smiles, and he leers with a grace, 
That the painter might catch all the charms of his face, 

Then vanished in lightning away. 

Quoth the painter, I trust j'ou'll suspect me no more. 

Since you find my assertions were true. 
But I'll alter the picture above the chu: ch door. 
For I never saw Satan so closely before, 

And I must give the devil his due. 


The work is done, the fabric is complete) 
Distinct the traveller sees its distant tower. 

Yet ere his steps attain the sacx'ed seat. 

Must toil for many a league and many an hour. 

Elate the abbot sees the pile and knows 
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose. 


Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride. 
Its columns* clustered strength and loity state.- 

How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptm-ed side. 
What intersecting arches graced its gate; 

Its tower how high, its massy walls how strong. 
These fanlv tc describe were sure a tedious sonsr. 

Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground, 
But little store of charity, I ween. 

The passing pilgrim at Moscera found; 
And often tliere the mendicant was seen 

Hopeless to turn him from the convent door. 
For this so costly work still kept the brethren poor. 



Now all is perfect, and from every side 

They flock to view the fabric, young and old- 

Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride. 
When on the sabbath day his eyes behold 

The multitudes that crowd his cliapel floor, 
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera mere. 

So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way. 

Since sainted for a life of holy deeds; 
He paused the new-rear'd convent to survey, 

And, whUst o'er all its bulk his eye proccods. 
Sorrows, as one whose holier feelings deem 
That ill so proud a pile did humble monks besecai. 


Him, musing as he stood, Eodulfo saw, 
And ibrth he came to greet the holy guest 

For he was known as one who held the law 
Of Benedict, and each severe behest 

So duly kept with such religious care, 
That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his praj er 

" Good brother, welcome !" thus Eodulfo criea, 

" In sooth it glads me to behold you here; 
It is Gualberto ! and mine aged eyes 

Did not deceive me: yet full many a year 
Has slipt away since last you bade farewell 
To me your host and my uncomfortable cell. 

" 'Twas but a sorrj"^ welcome then you found. 
And such as suited ill a guest so dear; 

The pile was ruinous old, the base unsound, 
It glads me more to bid you welcome here 

That you can call to mind our former state — 
Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate.' 



?c spake the cheerful abbot, but no smile 
Of answering joy softened Gualberto's browj 

He raised his hand, and pointed to the pile, 
" Moscera better pleased me then, than no^v ! 

A palace this, befitting kingly pride ! 
Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide ?" 


"■^J," cries Eodulfo, " 'tis a goodly place ! 

And pomp becomes the house of worship well. 
Nay, scowl not roimd with so severe a face ! 

"When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell, 
"Wliere art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall, 
Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all ?" 

"And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high 
To sei-ve your God?" the monk severe replied. 
" It rose from zeal and earnest piety. 

And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside ? 
Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere 
In humble hermit cell, God will incline his ear. 


" Eodulfo ! whilst tliis haughty building rose, 
Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door ? 

Did charity relieve the orphans' woes ? 

Clothed ye the naked ? did ye feed the poor ? 

He who with ahns most succours the distrest. 
Proud abbot, know, he serves his heavenly Father best. 


" Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell 
Who first abandoned all to serve the Lord? 

Their place of worship was the desert cell. 

Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal bcavd. 

And if a brook, like this, ran mm-muring hy, 
Tliey blest their gracious God, and thoivghtlt luxmy." 


Then anger darkened in Kodulfo's face, 

" Enough of preaching," sharply he replied, 
" Thou art grown envious ; — 'tis a common case. 

Humility is made the cloak of pride. 
Proud of our home's magnificence are we, 
l?iit thou ai-t far more proud in rags and beggary," 

With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone, 
" Father, hear me ! if this splendid pile 

Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone. 
Bless it, Father, with thy fostering smile ! 

StiU may it stand, and never evil know, 
Le>ng as beside its walls the eternal stream shall flow.' 

" But, Lord, if vain and woi-ldly-minded men 

Have wasted here the wealth which thou hast lent, 

To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then ! 
Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent, 

Let yonder brook that flows so calm beside. 
Now from its base sweep down the unholy house of pride!' 

He said — and lo ! the brook no longer Hows; 

The waters pause, and now they swell on high; 
High and more high the mass of water grows. 

The affrighted brethren from Moscera il}'. 
And on theii- saints and on their God they call, 
For now the moimtain bulk o'crtops the convent walL 

It falls, the mountain bulk, with thunder sound I 
Full on JVIoscera's pile the vengeance falls ! 

Its lofty tower now rushes to the ground, 

Prone lie its columns new, its high arched walls. 

Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide. 
That f>-om its base swept down the miholy house of pridf 


Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth, 
Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound ? 

This sure I know, that glad am I, in sooth, 
He only phi^-'d his pranks on foreign ground; 

For had he turn'd the stream on England too, 
'he Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly view. 

Then 3Ialmesbm'^'s arch had never met my ^ight, 

Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile; 
1 had not traversed then with sucli delight 

The hallowed ruins of our Arthur's isle. 
Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestuw'd 
On those who rob its walls to mend the tiu'upike rOi^J. 


Wells would have fallen, dear George, thy country's pride; 

And Canning's stately churc'i been rear'd in vain. 
2Cor had the traveller Ely's tower descried, 

Which when thou seest far o'er the lennjr plain. 
Deal- George, I counsel thee to turn that way, 
I ts ancient beauties sure will well reward delay. 


And we should never then have heard, I think, 
At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell; 

The fountain streams that now in Christ-Church stink, 
Had niagara'd o'er the quadivingle; 

But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood, 
I ween, dear George, our own old college might have stood. 

Then had not Westminster, the house of God, 
Served for a concert room, or signal post; 

Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod. 

Had swept down Greenwich, England's noblest boast; 

And eager to destroy the unholy wall.-;. 
Fleet-ditch had roll'd up hiU to overwhelm St. Paul's. 


Georgje, dost tliou deem the legendary deeds 

Of Romish saints a xiseless medley store 
Of lies, that he flings time away who reads ? 

And wonldst thou rather bid me puzzle o'er 
Matter and mind, and all the eternal round, 
Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless profound r 

Now do I bless the man who undertook 
These monies and martyrs to biographize. 

And love to ponder o'er his ponderous bookj 
The mingled mass of nature and of lies, 

Where angels now, now Beelzebubs appear, 
And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere. 

'Tis not all Euclid truth, and yet 'twere hard 
The fabling monks for fabling to abuse; 

Wliat if a monk, from better theme deban-ed, 
Some pious subject for a tale should chuse. 

How some good man the flesh and fiend o'ercamc, 
His taste methinks, and not his conscience, were to blame. 

in after years, what he, good man ! had wrote, 
As we write novels to instruct our youth. 

Went travelling on, its origin forgot, 

Till at the length it past for gospel truth. 

A fair accoiint! and shouldst thou like the plea, 
Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George, who taught it me. 


All is net false that seems at first a lie. 

One Antolinez, once a Spanish knight, 
Knelt at the mass, when lo ! the troops hard by. 

Before the expected hour began the fight. 
Though courage, duty, honour summoned there, 
He chose to foi'feit all, not leave the unfjnish'd prayer. 


But whilst devontly tlius the unarm'd knight 
Waits till the holy service should he o'er. 

Even then the foremost in the furious fight 
Was he belield to hathe his sword in gore^ 

First in the van his plumes were seen to jilay. 
And Spain to him decreed the glory of the day. 

The truth is told, and all at once exclaim, 

Ilis guardian angel heaven had deign'd to s?nd^ 

And thus the tale is handed dovm to fame. 
Now if this Aiatolinez had a friend, 

Who in the hour of danger served him well, 
Dear George, the tale is true, and jet no miracle. 

I am not one who scan with scornful eyes 

Tlio dreams that make the enthusiast s best delight; 

Nor thou the legendary lore despise 
If of Gualberto yet again I write. 

How fii-st impell'd he sought the convent cell; 
It is a simple tale, and one that pleased me well. 

Fortune had smiled upon Gualherto's birth. 
The heir of Valdespesa's rich domain. 

An only child, he grew in years and worth. 
And well repaid a father's anxious pain. 

Oft had hig sire in battle forced success, 
Well for his valour known, and known for hauglitinesc-. 

It chanced that one in kindred near allied 

Was slain by his hereditary foe ; 
Much by his sorrow moved, and more by pride, 

The father vow'd that blood for blood should flow; 
And from liis youth Gualberto had been taught 
That with unceasing hate should just revenge be sought. 


Ijong did they wait; at length the tidings came 
That through a lone and unfrequented way, 

Soon would Anselmo, — such the murderer's name,— ■ 
Pass on his journey home, an easy prey. 

" Go," cried the father, " meet him in the wood !" 
And young Gualberto went, and laid in wait for blood. 

Wlien now the youth was at the forest shade 
Ai-rived, it drew towards the close of day; 
Anselmo haply might he long delay'd. 

And he, already wearied with his way, 
Beneath an ancient oak his limbs reclined. 
And thoughts of near revenge alone possess'd his mind. 


Slow sunk the glorious sun, a roseate light 
Spread o'er the forest from his lingering rays, 

The glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight 

Soften'd in shade, — he could not choose but gaze; 

And now a placid greyness clad the heaven, 
Save where tlie west retain'd the last green light of even. 

Cool breathed the grateful air, and fi*esher now 
The fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose; 

The passing gale scarce moved the o'crhanging bough ; 
And not a sound disturb'd the deep repose, 

Save when a falling leaf came fluttering b}^ 
5ave tlve near j^iooklet's stream that murmur'd quietly. 


Is there -who has not felt the deep delight, 
The hush of soul, that scenes like these impart ? 

The breast they will not soften, is not right; 
And 3'oung Gualberto was not hard of heart — 

Yet sm-e hi thinks revenge becomes him well, 
When from a neighbouring church he heard the vesper belL 


The Catholic who hears that vesper beil, 

Howe'er employed, must put a prayer to heaven. 

In foreig-n lands I liked the custom well, 

For with the calm and sober thoughts of even 

It well accords; and shouldst thou journey there, 
It will not hm-t thee, George,, to join that vesper-prayer. 

Gualherto had been duly taught to hold 
Each pious rite with most religious care. 

And — for the young man's feelings were not cold — 
He never yet had miss'd his vesper-praj-er. 

But strange misgivings now his heai't invade. 
And when the vesper bell had ceased, he had not pray 'J. 

And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd ? 

The sudden doubt arose within his mind, 
And many a former precept then he weigh'd. 

The words of Him who died to save mankinu; 
How 'twas the meek who should inherit heaven. 
And man shoidd man forgive, if he wo'ald be forgiven. 

Troubled at heart, ahnost he felt a hope 

That yet some chance his victim might delay. 

So as he mused, adown the neighbouring slope 
He saw a lonely traveller on his way ; 

And now he knows the man so much abhorr'd, — 
His hoher thoughts are gone; he bai-es the murderous sword. 

" The house of Valdespesa gives the blow ! 

Go, and our vengeance to our kmsman tell 5" 
Despair and terror seized the unann'd foe, 

Aiid prostrate at the youn<r man's knees he fell, 
And stopt his hand and cried — " Oh. do not take 
A wretched sinner's life ' M.-^-i-jy. for Jesa'' «al\p !" 



At that most blessed name, as at a spell, 

Conscience, the God within him, smote his heart. 

His hand for murder raised unharming- fell, 
He felt cold sweat- drops on his forehead start, 

A moment mate in holy horror stood. 
Then cried, " Joy, joy, my God ! I have not shed his tlood !* 

He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live, 

And bless, for both preserved, that lioly name; 

And pray'd the astonish'd foeman to forgive 
The bloody pm-pose led by Avhich he came. 

Then to the neighbouiing church he sped av.\iy. 
His overbm-then'd soul before his God to la3\ 


He ran with breathless speed, — ^he reach'd the door, 
Timiultuous tides his throbbing pulses swell — 

He came to crave for pardon, to adore 

For grace vouchsafad; before the cross he fell. 

And raised his swimming eyes, and thought that there 
He saw the imaged Christ smile favom'ing on his prayer. 

A blest illusion ! From that very night 
The monk's austerest life devout he led; 

And still ne felt the enthusiast's deep delight, 
And seraph- visions floated round his head ; 

The joys of heaven foretasted lill'd his soul, 
Arid still the good man's name adorns the sainted rolL 




It was a Slimmer evening, 
Old Ivaspar's work was clone; 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun, 

And by him sported on the green 

His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Eoll something large and round. 

That he beside the rivulet, 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 


Old Kaspar took it from the boy. 

Who stood expectant by; 
And then the old man shook his head. 

And with a natural sigh, 
'Tis some poor fellow's skidl, said he. 
Who fell in the great victory. 

I find them in the gai'den, for 
There's many here about. 

And often when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare tiu-ns them out; 

Por many thousand men, said he. 

Were slain in the great victory. 


Now tell us what 'twas all about, 
Young Peterkin he cries. 

And httle Y\''ilhelmine looks up 
With wonder- waiting eyes; 

Now teU us all about the war, 

And what they kiU'd each other for. 


It was the English, Kaspar cried, 
That put the French to rout : 

But what they kill'd each other for, 
I could not well make out. 

But eveiybody said, quoth he, 

That 'twas a famous victory. 


My father lived at Blenheim then. 

Yon little stream hard by. 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground. 

And he was forced to fly; 
So with his wife and child he flod, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 

With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and ^^'ide, 
And many a childing mother then. 

And new-born infant, died. 
But things like that, j-ou know, must be 
At every tamous victory. 

TLey say it was a shockmg sight, 

After the field was wcm. 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun; 
But things like that, j'ou know, must lie 
After a famous victory. 


Great praise the Duke of Marlhio' wx 
And our good Prince Eugene-. — 

Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! 
Said little Wilhelmine. 

Nay — nay — my little giri, quoth be, 

It was A i'amous victory. 


And everybody praised the Duke 
Who such a fight did wiu. 

But what good came of it at last ?— 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

Why that I cannot tell, said ne, 

But 'twas a t'amous victory. 


One day, it matters not to know 

How many hundred years ago, 
A Spaniard stopt at a posada door: 

The landlord came to welcome him, and cbat 

Of this and that. 
For he had seen the travi'Uer there before. 

Does holy Romuald dwell 

Still in his cell ? 
The traveller ask'd, or is the old man dead ? 

No, he has left his loving flock, and we 

So good a Christian never more shall see, 
The landlord answer'd, and he shook his head. 

Ah, sir! we knew his worth. 

If ever there did live a saint on earth ! 

Why, sir, he always used to wear a shir!; 
For thirty days, all seasons, day and night: 
Good man, he knew it was not right 

For dust and ashes to fall out with dirt. 
And then he only hung it out in the rain, 
And put it on again. 

There used to be rare work 

With him and the Devil there in yonder c^Hj 
For Satan used to maid him like a Turk. 

There they would sometimes light 

All through a winter's night. 

From sunset until morn, 
- He with a cross, the Devil with Ids lioiuj 


The Devil spitting fii-e with miglit and main, 
Euough to make St. Michael half afraid; 
He splashing holy water till he made 

His red hide hiss again, 
And the hot vapour fiU'd the little cell. 

This was so common, that his face became 

All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, 
And then he smelt — Oh Lord ! how he did smell I 

Then, sir ! to see how he would mortify 
The flesh ! If any one had dainty fare, 
Good man, he would come there, 
And look at all the delicate things, and cry. 
Oh, belly! belly! 

You would be gormandizing now, I know. 
But it shall not be so; — 
Home to your bread and water — home, I tell ye ! 

But, quoth the traveller, wherefore did he leave 

A flock that knew his saintly worth so well ? 

Why, said the landlord, sir, it so befell 
He heard unluckily of our intent 

To do him a great honour, and you know 

He was not covetous of fame below. 
And so by stealth one night away he went. 

"What was this honour, then ? the traveller cried. 

Why, sir, the host repHed, 
We thought, perhaps, that he might one day leave us; 

And then should strangers have 

The good man's grave; 
A loss lUvC that would natiirally grieve us, 

Por he'll be made a saint of, to be sure. 

Therefore we thought it prudent to secure 
His relics while we might. 
And so we meant to strangle him one night. 



The people at Isna, in Upper Egj'pt, have a superstition concerning 
crocodiles similar to that entertained in the West Indies; they say 
there is a king of them, who resides near Isna, and who has ears, but 
no tail; and he possesses an uncommon regal quality — that of doing 
no harm. Some are bold enough to assert that they have seen him. 

Now, woman, why without your veil ? 
And wherefore do you loolc so pale ? 
And woman, why do you groan so sad. 
And beat your breast, as you wei'o mad ? 

Oh ! I have lost my darlmg boy, 

In whom my soul had all its joy; 

And I for sorrow have torn my veil. 

And sorrow hath made my very heart pale. 

Oh, I have lost my darling child, 
And that's the loss that malces me Avild; 
He stoop'd to the river down to di-ink, 
And there was a crocodile by the brink. 

He did not venture in to swim. 

He only stoop'd to drink at the brim ; 

But under the reeds the crocodile lay. 

And struck with his tail and swept him away. 

Now take me in your boat, I pray. 
For down the river lies my way; 
And me to the reed-island bring. 
For I will go to the crocodile king. 

The king of the crocodiles never does wrong'— 
He has no tail so stiff and strong. 
He has no tail to strike and slay, 
But he has ears to hear what I say. 

And to the king I will complain 
How my poor child was wickedly slaiti; 
The king of the crocodiles he is good. 
And I shall have the murderer's blood. 

The man replied. No, woman, no, 
To the island of reeds I will not go; 
I would not, for any worldly thing, 
See the face of the crocodile kins. 


Then lend me now yonr little boat. 
And I will down the river Hoat. 
I tell thee that no worldly thing 
Shall keep me from the crocodile king. 

The woman she leapt into the boat, 
And doAvn the river alone did she float, 
And last with the stream the boat proceeds. 
And now she is come to the island of reeds. 

The king of the (;rocodiles there was seen. 
He sat upon the eggs of his queen, 
And all around, a numerous rout. 
The young prince crocodiles crawl'd about. 

The woman shook every limb with fear, 
As she to the crocodile king came near. 
For never man without fear and aAve 
The face of his crocodile majesty saw. 

She fell upon her bended knee. 
And said, king, have pity on me. 
For I have lost my darling child. 
And that's the loss that makes me wild. 

A crocodile ate him for his food, 
^ow let me have the murderer's blood. 
Let me have vengeance for my boy, 
The only thing that can give me joy. 

I know that j'ou, sire ! never do wrong; 
You have no tail so stiff and strong, 
You have no tail to strike and slay. 
But you have ears to hear what I say. 

You have done well, the king replies, 
And fix'd on her his little eyes; 
Good woman, yes, you have done right, 
But you have not described me quite. 

I have no tail to strike and slay. 
And I have eai's to hear what you say; 
I have teeth, moreover, as you may see 
And I will make a meal of thee. 



Here followeth the History 0/ Hatto, Ardthishop of Mentz. 

It hapned in the year 'JH, that there was an exceeding great famine 
in Germany, at what time Otho, surnamed the Great, was Emperor, and 
one Hatto, once Abbot of Fiilda, was Arclibishop of Mentz, of the 
bishops after Crescens and Crescentius tlie two and thirtieth, of the 
archbishops after St. Bonifacius the thirteenth. This Hatto, in the time 
of this great famine aforementioned, when lie saw tlie poor peojjle of 
the country exceedingly oppressed with faniino, assembled a great com- 
pany of them togetlier into a barne, and like a most accursed and mer- 
cilesse caitilTe burnt up those poor innocent souls, that were so far from 
doubting any such matter, that they rather hoped to receive some 
comfort and relief at his hands. The reason that moved the prelate to 
commit that execrable impiety, was because he thought the famine 
would the sooner cease, if those unjirofitable beggars that consumed 
more bread than they were worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the 
world. For he said that those poor folks were like to mice, that were 
good for nothing but to devoiu' corue. But God Almighty, the just 
avenger of the poor folks quarrel, did not long sutfer this hainous 
tyranny — this most detestable fact — unpunished. For he mustered up 
an army of mice against the archbishop, and sent them to persecute him 
as his furious Alastors, so that they afilicted him both day and night, 
and would not suffer him to take his rest in any place. "Whereupon tlie 
prelate, thinking that he should be secure from the injury of mice if he 
were in a certain tower, that standeth in tlie Rhine, near to the towne, 
betook himself unto the said tower as to a safe refuge and sanctuary 
from his enemies, and locked himself in. But the innumerable troupes 
of mice chaced him continually very eagerly, and swumme unto him upon 
the top of the water to execute the just judgment of God, and so at last 
he was most miserably devoured by those sillie creatures; who pursued 
him with such bitter 'lostility, that it is recorded they scraped and 
gnawed out his very name from the walls and tapistry wherein it was 
\vritten, after they had so cruelly devoiu-ed his body. Wherefore the 
tower wherein he was eaten up by the mice is shown to this day, for a 
perpetual monument to all succeeding ages of the barbarous and inhu- 
man tyranny of this impious prelate, being situate in a little green ishmd 
in the midst of the Rhine, near to towne of Bing, and is commonly called 
in the German tongue, the Mowse-turn. — Coryat's Crud. 

Other authors who record this tale say that the bishop was eaten by 

The summer and autumn had been so wet. 
That in ^vinter the corn was growing yet, 
'Twas a piteous sight to see all around 
The com lie rotting on the ground. 


Every day the starving poor 
They crowded around bishop Hatto's door, 
For he had a plentitul last-year's store. 
And all the neighbourhood coidd tell 
His granaries Avere furnished well. 

At last bishop Hatto appointed a day 

To quiet the poor without delay, 

He bade them to his great bai'n repair. 

And they should have food for the winter (hete. 

Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, 
The poor folks flocked trom far and near. 
The great barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, and young and old. 

Then when he saw it could hold no more, 
]?ishop Hatto he made fast the door, 
And whilst for mercy on Christ they call. 
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all. 

I' faith 'tis an excellent bonfire ! quoth he,- 
And the country is greatly obliged to me. 
For ridding it, in these times forlorn, 
Of rats that only consuriie the corn. 

So then to his palace returned he, 

And he sate down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an umoceat man. 

But bishop Hatto never slept agaui. 

In the morning as he entered the hall, 
Where his pictui'e hung against the wall, 
A sweat like death all over him came. 
For the rats had eaten it out of the fi'ame. 

As he look'd, there came a man fi'om his farr^j 
He had a countenance white with alarm, 
Jly lord, I opened your granaries this mom. 
And the rats had eaten all yom* corn. 

Another came running presently, 
And he was as pale as pale could be. 
Fly ! my lord bishop, fly ! quoth he, 
Ten thousand rats are coming this way — 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday I 


I'll go to my tower in the Elmie, replied he, 
'Tis the safest place iii Germanj^, 
The walls are high, ajid the shores are steep, 
And the tide is stroncj, and the water deep. 

Bishop Ilatto fearfully hastened away, 
And he crost the Ehine -svithout delay. 
And reach'd his tower in the island, and barr'o 
All the gates secure and hard. 

He laid him down and closed hLs eyes— 

But soon a scream made him arise, 

He started, and saAv two eyes of flame 

On his pillow, from whence the screaming cams. 

He listen'd and look'd ; — it was only the cat; 
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, 
Eor she sate screaming, mad \vrith fear 
At the army of rats that were drawing near. 

For they have swum over the river so deep. 
And they have climb'd the shores so steep, 
xind now by thousands up they crawl 
To the holes and the windows hi tlie wall. 

Down on his knees the bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell. 

As louder and louder di-awing near. 

The saw of theii- teeth without he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
And through the walls, by thousands they pour, 
And down from the ceiling, and up thi-ough the floor^ 
From the right and the left, from behindhand before. 
From withm and mthout, from above and below, 
And all at once to the bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the stones. 
And now they pick the bishop's bones. 
They gnawed the flesh from every limb. 
For they were sent to do judgment on him ! 



' Bnrao, the Bishop of Ifcrbipolitamim, sailing in tiie liver cf Daiiubius, 
vitli Henry tlie Third, then emperour, being not far from a place 
■whicli the Germanes call Ben Strudel, or the devouring giilfc-, whicli 
is neere unto Grinon, a castle in Austria, a spirit was heard clamour- 
ing aloud, ' Ho. ho, Bishop Bruno, wliither art thou travelhng? But 
dispose of thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou slialt be my prey and spoile." 
At the hearing of these words they were all stnpified, and the bishop 
with the rest crost and blest themselves. The issue was, that within 
a short time after, the bishop feasting Tvith the emperor in a castl-.> 
belonging to the Coimtesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof ol 
the chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the table." — 
Hcyicood's Hierarchic oftlic Blessed AngeU. 

Bishop Beuno awoke in the dead midnight, 
And ha heard his heart beat loud with aflright; 
He di-eamt he had rung the palace bell, 
And the sound it gave was his passing knelL 

Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain. 
He tui-n'd to sleep, and he dreamt again: 
He rung at the palace gate once more, 
And Death was the porter that open'd the door. 

He started up at the fearful di-eam, 

And he heard at his window the screech owl scream ! 

Bishop Brmio slept no more that night, — 

Oh ! glad was he when he saw the daylight ! 

Now he goes forth in proud array. 
For he with the emperor dines to-day; 
There was not a baron in Germany 
That went with a nobler train than he. 

Before and behind his soldiers ride. 
The people throng'd to see their pride. 
They bow'd the head, and the knee they benVj 
But nobody blest him as he went. 

So he went on stately and proud, 

Wlien he heard a voice that cried aloud, 

Ho ! ho ! Bishop Bruno ! you travel with glee— 

But I would have ^'Oi( know, you travel to mel 


Behind and before, and on either side, 
He look'd, but nobody he espied. 
And the bishop at that grew cold with fear, 
For be heard the words distinct and clear. 

And when he rung at the palace bell, 
He almost expected to hear his knell ; 
And when the porter turn'd the key^ 
He almost expected death to see. 

But soon the bishop recover'd his glee, 
For the emperor welcom'd him royally ; 
And now the tables were spread, and there 
Were choicest wines and dainty tare. 

And now the bishop had blest the meat, 
When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat,-» 
With the emperor now yon are dining in glee, 
But know, bishop Bruno, you sup with me ! 

The bishop then grew pale with affright, 

And suddenly lost his appetite ; 

All the wine and dainty cheer 

Could not comfort his heart so sick with fi'ar. 

But by little and little recovered he, 
For the wine went flowing merrily, 
And he forgot his former dread, 
And his cheeks again grew rosy red. 

When he sat down to the royal fare 
Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there, 
But when the masquers entered the hall, 
He was the merriest man of all. 

Then from amid the masquer's crowd 

There went a voice hollow and loud — ' 

You have past the day, bishop Bruno, wi'h glee I 

But you must pass the night with rae ! 

His cheek grows pale and his eye-balls glare. 
And stiff round his tonsure bristles his hair ; — 
With that there came one from the masquer's bau:: 
And he took the bishop by the hand. 


Tlie honj hand suspended his breath, 
His marrow grew cold at the touch of death ; 
On saints in vain he attempted to call, 
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall. 



You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 
The few locks that are left you are gray ; 

You are hale. Father William, a hearty old man, 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
I remember'd that youth would fly fast, 

And abused not my health and my vigour at first, 
That I never might need them at last. ' 

You are old, Father William, the j'oung man cried, 
And pleasures witli youth pass away, 

And yet you lament not the days that are gone, 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
I remember'd that youth could not last ; 

I thought of the future, whatever I did. 
That I never might grieve for the past. 

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, 

And life must be hastening away ; 
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death I 

Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied; 

Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! 

And he hath not forgotten my age. 



^''iTH clieerful step the traveller 

Pursues liis enrly way, 
"When first the dimly-dawning east 

Eeveals the rising day. 

He bounds along his craggy road. 

He hastens up the height, 
And all he sees and all he hears, 

But Snlj give delight. 

And if the mist retiring slow, 
Roll round its wavy white, 

He thinks the moi-ning vapours hide 
Some beauty from his sight. 

But when Iceland the western clouds 

Departs the ftxding day, 
H ow wearily the traveller 

Pursues his evening way ! 

Then sorely o'er the craggy road 
His painful footsteps creep, 

And slow with many a feeble pause, 
He labours up the steep. 

And if the mists of night close round 
They fill his soul with fear ; 

He dreads some unseen precipice, 
Some hidden danger near. 

So cheerfully does youth begin 
Life's pleasant morning stage ; 

A las ! the evening traveller feels 
The fears of wary age ! 



Slowly thy floAviiig tide 
Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did mine eye3, 
i\ .s watchfully I roani'd thy green-wood side, 

Behold the gentle rise. 

With many a stroke and strong 
The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, 
And yet the eye beheld them labouring long 

Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlaboured boat falls rapidly along, 
The solitary liclms-mau sits to guide 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o'er the rocks, that lay 
Po silent late, the shallow curient roars ; 
I'ast flow thy waters on their sea-ward way 

Through wider-spi-eading shores. 

Avon ! I gaze and know 
The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way, 
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 

So rapidly decu}'. 

Kingdoms that long have stood 
And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, 
Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood 

Ebb to their ruin fast. 

So tardily appears 
The course of time to manhood's envied stage, 
Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years 

Then hasten to old aae 1 




Jacob ! I do not love to see thy uose 
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig. 
It would be well, my friend, if thou and I 
Had, like that pig, attauied the perfectness 
Made reachable by Nature! why dislike 
The sow-born grunter ? — he is obstinate, 
Thou answerest, ugly, and the filthiest beast 
That banquets ujjon ofFal. Now I pray you 
Hear the pig's counsel. 

Is he obstinate? 
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, 
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast. 
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
Theii- profit, and not his. He hath not learnt 
That pigs were made for man, born to be brawn'd 
And baconiz'd ; that he must please to give 
Just what his gracious masters please to take ; 
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Natiu'e gave 
For self-defence, the general privilege ; 
Perhajjs — hark, Jacob ! dost thou hear that horn ? 
Woe to the young posterity of pork ! 
'L'heir enemy is at hand. 

Again. Thou say at 
The j)ig is ugly. .Jacob, look at him! 
Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. 
His face,— nay, .Jacob, Jacob ! were it fair 
To judge a lady in her dishabille? 
Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. 
Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
The wanton hop marries her stately sjiouse ; 
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair 
Rings round her lovers soul the chains of love. 
And what is beauty but the aptitude 
Of parts harmonious] give thy fancy scope, 
And thou wilt find that no imagined change 
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end 
The starry glories of the peacock's pride ; 
Give him the swan's white breast for his horn-hoofs; 
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves 


Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss, 
When Vemis from the euamour'd sea arose ; — 
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him; 
All alteration man could think, Avould mai* 
His pig-perfection. 

The last charge — he lives 
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him 
With noble and right-reverend precedents, 
And show, by sanction of authority, 
That 'tis a very honourable thing 
To thrive by dii'ty ways. But let me rest 
On better groiind the unanswerable defence : 
The pig is a philosopher, who knows 
No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, Avhat is dirt ? 
If matter, — why the dehcate dish that tempts 
An o'ergorged epicui-e to the last morsel 
That stuffs him to the thi'oat-gates, is no more. 
If matter be not, but as sages say 
Spirit is all, and all things ^'isible 
Are one, the infinitely modified. 
Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire 
In which he stands knee-deep i 

And there ! that breeze 
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile 
That speaks conviction. O'er you blossom'd field 
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 



Hark ! hark ! that pig — that pig ! the hideous note, 
More loud, more dissonant, each moment grows— 

Y/ould one not thiuk the knife was in his throat ] 
And yet they are only boi-ing thi'ough his nose. 

You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand 
Your master's will, to ieel such idle fears ! 

Y/hy, pig, there's not a lady in the land 

Who has net also bored and ring'd her ears. 

ODE TO A PIG. 34? 

Pig ! 'tis your master's pleasure — tlien be still, 
And hold your nose to let the iron through ! 

Dare you resist your la\vful sovereign's will i 
Eebellious swine ! you know not what you do ! 

To man o'er every beast the power was given, 
Pig, hear the truth, and never murmur move ! 

Would you rebel against the will of Heaven 1 
You impious beast, be still, and let them bore ! 

The social jjig resigns his natm-al rights 
When first with man he covenants to live; 

He barters them for safer stye delights, 

For grains and was)', which man alone can give. 

Sure is provision on the social plan. 

Secure the comforts that to each belong : 

Oh, hapjjy swine ! the impartial sway of man 
Alike protects the weak pig and the strong. 

And you resist ! you struggle now because 

Your master has thought fit to bore your nose ! 

You grunt in flat rebellion to the laws 
Society finds needful to /^pose ! • 

Go to the forest, piggy, and deplore 

The miserable lot of savage swine ! 
See how the young pigs fly from the great boar, 

And see how coaise and scantily they dine ! 

Behold their hoiu'ly danger, when who will 
May hunt, or snare, or seize them for his food ! 

Oh, happy pig ! whom none presumes to kill 
Till your protecting master thinks it good ! 

And when, at last, the closing hour of life 
Arrives (for pigs must die as well as man), 

When m your throat you feel the long sharp knife, 
And the blood trickles to the pudding pan ; 

And, when at last, the death wound yawaiing wide, 
Fainter and fainter grows the expiring cry, 

Is there no grateful joy, no loyal pride, 

To think t))at for vour master's good you die ? 



O READER ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly tree 1 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

AVriukled and keen, 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothiiig is to fear, 
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 

I love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize ; 
And in the wisdom of the holly tree 

Can emblems see 
"Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
Such as may profit in the after-time. 

So, though abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere, 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude ; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 

And should my youth, as yovith is apt, I know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Would wear away. 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree. 


And as when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green 
The holly leaves their fadeless lines display 

Less bright than they, 
Bnt when the bare and wintry woods we see 
What then so cheerful as the holly tree l 

So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng, 
So would I seem amid the young and gay 

More grave than they, 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the holly tree. 


A M O N O D R A M A. 
Scene, the house of COLLATINE. 

'W'elco:5IE, my father ! good Valerius, 
Welcome ! and thou too, Brutus I ye were both 
My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come. 
My husband — CoUatine — alas ! no more 
Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp 
Pollution to thy bosom, — hear me on I 
For I will tell thee aU. 

I sate at eve 
Spinning amid my maidens as I wont, 
When from the camp at Ardea Sextus came. 
Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatine ! 
I little liked the man ; yet, for he came 
From Ardea, for he brought me news of thee, 
I gladly gave him welcome, gladly listen'd. 
Thou canst not tell how gladly ! to his tales 
Of battles, and the long and perilous siege, 
And when I laid me down at night to sleep, 
'Twas with a lighten'd heart, — I knew thee safa 
My visions were of thee. 


Nay liear me out ! 
Aud be tliou wise in vengeance, so tliy wife 
Not vainly shall have suffered. I have wrought 
My soul up to the business of this hoiu- 
That it may stu' your noble spirits, prompt 
Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn 
Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke — • 
For by my bed the villain Tarquin stood. 
My chamber lamp gleam'd on his unsheath'd sword 
That was not half so fearful as his eye, 
His hot, red, eye ! — O ( JoUathie — my husband ! 
Where wert thou then ! gone was my rebel strength- 
xVll power of utterance gone ! astonish'd — stunn'd, 
I saw the cowai'd ruffian, heai'd him urge 
His damned suit, and bid me tamely yield — 
Yield to dishonom-. AVhen he proffer'd death — 
Oh I had leapt to meet the mercifid sword ! 
But that -with most accursed vows he vow'd 
That he would lay a dead slave by my side, 
Murdering my spotless honoiu-. — Collatine ! 
From what an anguish have I rescued thee ! 
And thou, my father — wretched as tliou art — 
Thou miserable, childless, poor old man — 
Think, father, what that agony had been ! 
Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bles3 
The memory of thy poor, poll-red child. 

Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye ! 

Mysterious man I at last I know thee now, 
I see thy dawning glories, — to the grave 
Not uurevenged Lucretia shall descend — 
Not always shall her wretched country wear 
The Tarquins' yoke, — ye will deliver Eome — • 
And I have comfort in this dreadful hom\ 

Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death ? 
O Collatine ! the weapon that had gored 
My bosom, had been ease, been happiness — 
Elysiiun to the hell of his hot grasp. 
Judge if Lucretia could have feai''d to die ! 

{iStals herself.) 



Recovery, where art thou 1 
Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy help 1 
Upon what hallowed fountain hast thou laid 

njTujih adored, thy spell I 

By the grey ocean's verge, 
Daughter of Heaven, Ave seek thee, hut in vain ; 
Yv'e lind no healing in the breeze that sweeiw 

Thy thyniy mountain's brow. 

Where are the happy hours, 
The sunshine that so cheer'd the morn of life ! 
For health is tied, and with her fled the joys 

That made existence deai-. 

1 saw the distant hills 

Smile in the radiance of the orient beam, 
^Ind gazed delighted that anon our feet 
Should visit scenes so fair. 

I look'd abroad at noon, 
The shadow and the storm were on the hills . 
The crags that like a faery fabi'ic shone 

Darkness had overwhelm'd. 

On you, ye coming years, 
So fairly shone the April gleam of liope, 
So darkly o'er the distance late so bright, 

Now settle the black clouds. 

Come thou and chase away 
Sorrow and pain, the persecuting jiowei-a 
That make the melancholy day so long, 

So long the restless night. 

Shall we not find thee Ifere, 
Recovery, on the ocean's breezy strand ? 
Is there no healing in the gales that sweep 

The thymy mountain's brow I 

I look for thy approach, 
O life-preserving Power ! as he who strajra 
Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh 

Watches the dawn of day. 



Nay gather not that filbert, Nichola3, 

There is a maggot there, — it is his house — 

His castle — Oh commit not burglary ! 

Strip him not naked, 'tis his clothes, his shell, 

His bones, the very armour of his life, 

And thou shall do no murder, Nicholas ! 

It were an easy thing to crack that nut. 

Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth, 

So easily may all things be destroyed ! 

But 'tis not in the power of mortal man 

To mend the fracture of a filbert shell. 

There were two great men once amused themselves 

With watching maggots run their ^vi-iggling race 

A nd wagering on their speed ; but Nick, to us 

It were no sport to see the pampered worm 

Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat, 

Like to some barber's leathern powder bag 

Wherewith he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers 

Spruce beau, or lady fair, or doctor grave. 

Enough of dangers and of enemies 

Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordained, 

Increase not thou the number ! him the mouse 

Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence 

May from his native tenement eject ; 

Him may the nut-hatch piercing with strong bill 

Unwittingly destroy, or to his hoard 

The squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd. 

Man also hath his dangers and his foes, 

As this poor maggot hath, and when I muse 

Upon the aches, anxieties, ana tears. 

The maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks 

It were a happy metamorphosis 

To be enkernelied thus : never to hear 

Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots, 

Kings, Jacobines, and tax-commissioners. 

To feel no motion but the wind that shook 

The filbert tree, and rocked me to my rest i 

And in the middle of such exquisite food 

To live luxurious ! the perfection this 

Of snugness ! it were to unite at once 

Hermit retirement, aldermanic bliss, 

And stoic independence of mankind. 



On Vorska's glittering waves 
The morning sun-beams play ; 
Pultowa's walls are throng'd 
With eager multitudes : 
Athwart the dusty vale 
They sti'ain their achmg eyes, 
Wliere to the fight he moves 
The conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.] 

Him famine hath not tamed 

The tamer of the brave ; 

Him winter hath not quell'd, 
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down. 

Frozen to their endless sleep, 

He held undaunted on ; 

Him pain hath not subdued, 

What though he mounts not now 

The fiery steed of war, ■• 
Borne on a litter to the fight he goes. 

Go, iron-hearted king ! 

Full of thy former fame. 

Think how the humbled Dane 

Croucli'd to thy victor sword ; 

Think how the wretched Pole 

Pesigu'd his conquer'd crown ; 

Go iron-hearted king ! 
Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast — 
The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd ; 

Proud Swede, the sun hath risen 

That on thy shame shall set ! 

Now bend thine head from heaven, 
Now Patkul be revenged ! 
For o'er tliat bloody Swede 
Ruin hath rais'd his arm — 
For ere the night descends 
His veteran host subdued, 
His laurels blasted to revive no more 
He flies before the foe ! 

jO lyrical riECE3. 

Long 3'eai's of hope deceived 
That conquered Swede must provSj 
Patkul thou art avenged! 
Long years of idleness 
That restless soul must bear, 
Patkul thou art avenged ! 
The despot's savage anger took thy lifp, 
Thy death has stabb'd liis fame. 


Th]', night is come, no fears disturb 

The dreams of innocence ; 
They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths, 

They sleep — alas ! they sleep ! 

Go to the palace wouldst thou know 

How hideous night can be ; 
Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, 

Nor heart at quiet there. 

The monarch from the window leans, 

He listens to the night, 
And with a horrible and eager hope 

Awaits the midnight bell. 

Oh, he has hell within him. now ! 

God, always art thou just ! 
For innocence can never know such pangs 

As pierce successful guilt. 

He looks abroad and all is still. 

Hark ! — ^now the midnight bell 
Sounds through the silence of the night alone j 

And now the signal gun ! 

Thy hand is on him, righteol^s God! 

He hears the frantic shriek. 
He hears the glorying yells of massacre, 

And he rej^ents too late. 


He henrs tlie mnrderer's savage shout, 

He lieavs the of death ; 
Tn vain tliej fly, — soldiers defenceless now. 

Women, old men, and babes. 

Bighteons and just art thou, O God ! 

For at his dying hour 
Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear 

He heard that murderous yell ! 

They throng'd around his midnight couch 

The phantoms of the slain, — 
It preyed like poison on his powers of life, — ■ 

Righteous art thou, O God ! 

Spirits who suffered at that liouv 

For freedom and for ftxith. 
Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke, 

Her faith and freedom crusli'd. 

And like a giant from liis sleep 

Ye saw when France awoke ; 
Ye saw the people burst their double chain, 

And ye had joy in heaven. 


And wherefore do the poor complain 1 
The rich man asked of me ; — 

Come walk abroad with me, I said, 
And I will answer thee. 

'Twas evening and the frozen streets 

Were cheerless to behold. 
And we were wrapt and coated well. 

And yet we were a-cold. 

We met an old bare-headed man. 
His locks were few and white, 

I ask'd him what he did abroad 
In that cold winter's nisjlit: 


Twas bitter keen, indeed, he said, 
But at home no fire had he, 

And therefore he had come abroad. 
To ask for charity. 

We met a yuiing bare-footed child. 
And she begg'd loud and bold, 

I ask'd her what she did abroad 
When the wind it blew so cold; 

She said her father was at home, 

And he lay sick in bed, 
And thereforo was it she was sent 

Abroad to beg for bread. 

We saw a wo}nan sitting down 

Upon a stone to rest. 
She had a baljy at her back 

And another at her breast; 

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there, 
When the night-wind was so chill: — 

She turn'd her head and bade the child 
That screani'd behind be still. 

She told us that her husband served 

A soldier, far away, 
And therefore to her parish she 

Was begging back her way. 

We met a girl, her dre.'^s was loose^ 
And sunken was her eye, 

Who with the wanton's hollow voice 
Address'd the passers by ; 

I ask'd her what there was in guilt 
That covild her heart allure 

To shame, disease, and late remorse ? 
She answer'd, she was. poor. 

I turn'd me to the rich man then. 

For silently stood he, — 
You ask'^l me why the poor complain. 

And these have answer'd thee ! ■ 



Thou wert out betimes, thou busy busy bee ! 

As abroad I took my early way, 

Before the cow from her restmg place 

Had risen up nnd left her trace 

On the meadow, with dew so gray, 
I saw thee, thou busy busy bee. 

Ihou wert working late, thou busy busy bee! 

After the fall of the cistus flower, 

When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst 

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ; 

In the silence of the evening hour, 
I heard thee, tho a busy husj bee. 

Thou art a miser, thou busy busy bee ! 

Late and early a t employ ; 

Still on thy golden stores intent, 

Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent, 

"What thy winter will never enjoy; 
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy husj bee ! 

Little dost thou think, thou busy busy bee ! 

What is the end of thy toil. 

When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone 

And all thy work for the year is done, 

Thy master comes for the spoU. 
Woe then for thee, tho:j busy busy bee ! 



Marga.iet I my cousin, — nay you must not smile, 
I love the homely and familiar phrase ; 
And I will call thee cousin Margaret, 
However quaiat amid the measured liue, 
The good old term appears. Oh ! it looks Ul 
When delicate tongues disclaim old term of kir, 
Sirring and madaming as civilly 
As if the road between the he-o-vt and lips 


"Were sucli a weary and Laplandisli way. 

That the poor travellers came to the red j^tes 

Half frozen. Trast me, cousin INIargaret, 

For many a day my memory hath played 

The creditor with me, on your account. 

And made me shame to thmk that I should owa 

So long a debt of kindness. But in truth, 

Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear 

So heavj' a pack of business, that albeit 

I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race 

Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I 

That for a moment you should lay to me 

Unkind neglect : mine, Margaret, is a heart 

That smokes not, yet methinks there should be some 

Who know how wann it beats. I am not one 

^Vllo can play off my smiles and courtesies 

To every lady of her lap-dog tired, 

Who wants a plaything ; I am no sworn friend 

Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love ; 

Mine ai'e no mushroom feelings which spring up 

At once without u, seed ami take no root, 

Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere, 

The little circle of domestic life, 

I wonld be known and loved ; the world beyond 

Is not for me. But Margaret, sure I think 

That you should know me well, for you and I 

Grew up together, and when we look back 

Upon old times our recollectious paint 

The same familiar faces. Did I wield 

The wand of Meilin's magic I would make 

Brave ^^'itchcraft, We would have a faery ship, 

Ay, a new ark, as in that other flood 

Which cleansed the sons of Anak from the earth; 

The sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle 

Like that where whilome old Apollidon 

Built up his blameless speU ; and I would bid 

The sea nymphs pile around their corjii bowers, 

That we might stand upon the beach, aad mark 

The far-off breakers shower their silver spray 

And hear the eternal roar whose pleasant sound 

Told us that never mariner should reach 

Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle 

We might renew the days of infancy, 

And life like a long ciiildhood pass a.\vay. 

Tiir VICTORY. 355 

Without one care. It may be, Margaiet, 
That I shall yet be gathered to my fiiencls ; 
For I am not one of those who live estranged 
Of choice, till at the last they join their race 
In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, 
Like my old friend the pilgrim, this huge pack 
So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine 
Eight pleasantly will end our pilgrimage. 
If not, if I should never get beyond 
This Vanity town, there is another world, 
"Where friends will meet. And often, Mai\garet, 
I gaze at night into the boundless sky, 
And think that I shall there be born again, 
The exalted native of some better star; 
And like the rude American I hope 
To find in heaven the things I loved on earth. 


Hark ! how the churcli-bells' thundering harmony 
Stuns the glad ear ! tidings of joy have come, 
Good tidings of great joy 1 two gallant ships 
Met on the element, — thoy met, they fought 
A desperate fight ! — good tidings of great joy ! 
Old England triumphed ! yet another day 
Of glory for the ruler of the v\"aves ! 
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's causa, 
They have their passing paragraphs of praise 
And are forgotten. 

There vras one who died 
In that day's glory, whose obscui'er name 
ISI o proud historian's page will chronicle. 
Peace to his honest soul I I read his name, 
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God 
The sound was not familiar to mine ear. 
But it was told me after that this man 
Was one whom lawful violence had forced 
From his own home and wife and little ones, 
Who by his labour lived; that he was one 
Wliose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel 


A husband's love, a father's anxiousnesa; 
That from the wages of his toil he fed 
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them 
At midnight when he trod the silent deck 
With him he valued, — talk of them, of joys 
Which he had known — oh God ! and of the hour 
When they should meet again, till liis full heart 
His manly heart, at last would overflow 
Even like a child's with very tenderness. 
Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly 
It came, and merciful the ball of death, 
For it came suddenly and shattered him, 
And left no moment's agonizing thought 
On those he loved so well. 

He ocean-deep 
Now lies at rest. Bo thou her comforter, 
Who art the ^vidow's friend ! Man does not knov 
What a cold sickness made her blood run back, 
When first she heard the tidings of the fight ; 
Man does not know Avith what a di-eadful hope 
She listened to the r.ames cf those who died; 
Man does not know, or knowing, will not heed, 
With what an agony of tenderness 
She gazed upon her children, and beheld 
His image who was gone. Oh God ! be thou, 
Who ai't the widow's friend, her comforter 1 


Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about 

To shun my curious eyes, 
I wont humanely crush thy bowels out, 
Lest thou should'st eat the flies, — 
Kor Tvill I roast thee with a damn'd delight 
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, 
For there is one who might 
One day roast me. 

Thou art welcome to a rhymer sore-perplext, 

The subject of his verse : 
There's many a one who on a better text 

Perhaps might comment worse. 


Then shrink not, old free-mason, from my vievr. 
But quietly like me spin out the line ; 
Do thou thy work pursue 
As I will mine. 

Weaver of snares, thou, emblemest the ways 

Of Satan, sire of lies ; 
Hell's huge black spider for maukiud he lays 

If is toils as thou for Hies. 
When Betty's busy eye ruus round the rooui 
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen ! 
But where is he whose broom 
The earth shall clean 1 

Spider I of old thy flimsy webs were thought, 

And 'twas a likeness true, 
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught 

But which the strong break through. 
\nd if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, 
Like some jjoor client is that wretched fly — 
I'll warrant thee thou'lt di-aiu 
His life-blood dry. 

And is not thy v/eak vrork like human schemes 

And care on earth employ'd 1 
Such are young hopes and love's delightful droaraa 

So easily destroyed I 
So does the statesman, whilst the avengers sleep, 
Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay, 
Soon shall destruction sweep 
His work away. 

Thou busy labourer ! ouk resemblance more 

Shall yet the verse prolong, 
For spider, thou art like the poet poor, 

Whom thou hast help'd in song. 
Both busily our needful food to win, 

We work, as nature taught, with ceaseless paiiia, 
Thy bowels thou dost -spin, 
I spin my brains. 



It is the funeral march. T did not think 

That there had hesn such magic in sweet sounds ? 

Hark ! from the Lhicken'd cymbal that dead tone — 

It awes the very i-abble multitude, 

They follow silently, their earnest brows 

Lifted in solemn tliought. 'Tis not the pomp 

And i^ageantry of death that with such force 

Arrests the sense, — the mute and mourning train, 

The white plume nodding o'er the sable heai-sa 

Had past UDJieeded, or perchance awoke 

A serious smUe upon the poor man's cheek 

At ])ride's last triumph. Now these measur'd sounds 

This universal language, to the heart 

Speak instant, and on all these various minds 

Compel one feeling. 

Eut such better thoughts 
Will pass away, how soon ! an^l these who here 
Are following their dead comrade to the grave, 
Ere the night fall, Avill in their i-evelry 
Quench all remembranoe. From the ties of life 
"Unnaturally rent, a man who knew 
No resting jilace, no dear delights of home, 
Belike who never sav/^ children's foce, 
Whose children knew no father, he is gone, 
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf 
That from the summer tree is swept away. 
Its loss unseen. She heare not of his death 
AVho bore him, and already for her son 
Her tears of bitterness are shed: when tirst 
He had put on the livery ot l)lood, 
She wept him dead to her. 

We are indeed 
Clay in the potter's hand! one favour'd mind 
Scarce lower than the angels, shall explore 
The ways of nature, whilst his fellow-man 
Fram'd with like miracle the work of God, 
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on 
A life of labour, like this soldier here, 
His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain 
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes 
A mere machine of murder. 



It lay before me on the close-grazed grass, 

Beside my path, an old tobacco quid : 
And shall I by the mute adviser pass 

Without one serious thought 1 now heaven forbid ! 

Perhaps some idle drunkard thi-ew thee there, 
Some husband, spendthrift of his weeJily hue, 

One who for wife and children takes no care, 
But sits and tijjples by the alehouse fire. 

Ah ! luckless was the day lie learnt to chew ! 

Embryo of ills the quid that pleas'd him first ! 
Thirsty from that unlKippy quid lie grew, 

Then to the alehouse went to queuch his tliirdt. 

So great events from causes small arise, 
The forest oak was once an acorn seed: 

And many a wretch from drunkenness who dies, 
Owes all his evils to the Indian Aveed. 

Let not temptation, mortal, ere come nigh ! 

Suspect some ambush in the parsley hid ! 
From the first kiss of love ye maidens fly ! 

Ye youths avoid the first tobacco quid ! 

Perhaps I wrong thee, O thou veteran chaw. 
And better thoughts my musings should engage 

Tliat thou wert rounded in some toothless jaw, 
The joy, perhaps, of solitaiy age. 

One who has suffered fortune's hardest knocks, 
Poor, and with none to tend on his grey hairs, 

Yet has a friend in his tobacco-box. 

And whilst he rolls his quid, forgets his cares. 

Even so it is with human happiness, 

Each seeks his own according to his whim; 

One toils for wealth, one fame alone can bleso„ 
One asks a quid, a quid is all to him. 


O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong. 

Whilst ought remain'd to chew thy master chew'd. 
Then cast thee here, when all thy juice was gone, 

Emblem of selfish man's ingratitude ,' 

A happy man, O cast-off quid, is he 

Who, like as thou, has comforted the poor. 

Happy his age, who knows himself like thee, 
Thou didst thy duty, man can do no more. 


Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given, 
Almost excites my envy. This green field 
Sweet solace to the wearied mind must yield; 

And yonder wide circumference of heaven, 
At morn or when the day-star rides on high, 

Or when the calm and mellowed light of even 
Softens the glory of the western sky, 
Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye. 

And when these seeises, these lovely scenes so fair, 
Hill, vale, and v*'ood, are hidden from thy sight, 

Still through the deepness of the quiet air, 
Canst thou behold the radiant host of night, 
And send thy spirit through the infinite, 

Till lofty contemplation end in prayer. 

Richard, the lot which fate to tliee lias given, 

I not unenvying shall recall to mind, 

In that foul town, by other fate confined, 

Where never running brook, nor verdant field. 
Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven, 

Sweet solace to the wearied soul can yield. 



spare me — spare me, Phoebus ! if, indeed, 
Thou hast not let another Phaeton 

Drive eartliward thy fierce steeds and fiery car ; 
Mercy! I melt! I melt! no tree — no bush, 
No shelter ! not a j:)i'eath of stu'ring air 
East, west, or north, or south! dear god of day, 
Put on thy night-cap ! — crop thy locks of light, 
And be in the fashion ! turn thy back upon us, 
And let thy beams flow upward ! make it night 
Instead of noon ! one little miracle. 
In pity, gentle Phoebus! 

What a joy, 
Oh, what a joy to be a seal and flounder, 
On an ice-island ! or to have a den 
With the white bear, oavernVl in polar snow! 
It were a comfort to shake hands with death — ■ 
He has a rare cold hand ! to wj-ap one's self 
In the gift shirt Deianeira sent, 

1 )ipt Lq the blood of Nessus, just to keep 
The sun ofi", — or toast cheese for Beelzebub, 
That were a cool employment to this joui'ucy 
Along a road whose white intensity 
Would now make platina uncongelable, 
Like quicksilver. 

Were it midnight, I should walk 
Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jovel 
O gentle Jove I have mercy, and once more 
Kick that obdui'ate Phoebus out of heaven. 
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars 
For cardimum, and drinks down peppermint, 
Making what's left as precious as Tokay. 
Send Mercury to salivate the sky 
Till it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove ! 
But some such little kindness to a wretch 
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat — 
Who swells with calorique as if a Prester 
Had leavened every limb with poison-yeast — 
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings, 
And fan me, and I wtJI build temples to tliee 
And turn true pagan. 


Not a cloud nor breeze— 

you most lieathen deities! if ever 

My bones reach, home (i'oi-, for the flesh upon them 
That hath resolved itself into a dew), 

1 shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Most vile Phoebus, 
Set me a Persian sun-idolater 

Upon this tui-npike road, and I'll convei-t him 

"With no inquisitorial argument 

But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wi-etch, 

That I was in a heretic country born ! 

Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, 

And burn away the calx of their offences 

In that great purgatory crucible, 

Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion ! 

I am made a copper-Indian of already. 

And if no kindly cloud will parasol me, 

My very cellular membrane will be changed— 

I shall be negrofied. 

A brook ! a brook ! 
Oh what a sweet cool sound! 

'Tis very nectar! 
It runs like life through every strengthen'd limb — - 
Nymph of the stroam, now take a grateful prayer. 


A DELICATE pinch ! oh how it tingles up 
The titillated nose, and fills the eyes 
And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze 
The full collected pleasure bursts at last ! 
ISIost rare Columbus ! thou shalt be for this 
Tlie only Christopher in my kalendar. 
WTiy, but for thee, the uses of the nose 
Were half unknown, and its capacity 
Of joy. The summer gale tliat from the heath. 
At midnoon glittering with the golden fui-ze 
Bears its balsamic odours, but provokes, 
Not satisfies the sense ; and all the flowers, 
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt! 
And disappoint, bloom for so short a space^ 


That half the year the nostrils would keep lent, 

But that the kiud tobacconist admits 

No winter in his work ; when nature sleeps 

His wheels roll on, and still administer 

X plenitude of joy, a tangible smell. 

What is Peru and those Brazilian mines 

Til thee, Virginia 1 miserable realms, 

They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fooh ' 

But thine are common comforts ! to omit 

Pipe-panegyric and tobacco praise. 

Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives, 

Europe, and far above Pizarro's name 

Write Raleigh in thy records of renown ! 

niim let the school-boy bless if he behold 

His master's box produced, for when he sees 

The thumb and finger cf authority 

Stuff'd up the nostrils, when hat, head, and wig 

Shake all ; when on the waistcoat black the dust 

Or drop falls brown, soon shall the brow severe 

Relax, and from vituiDeratlve lips 

Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, 

And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed. 


Dost thou, ihen, listening to the traveller's tala 
Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fame, 
And spacious bays, and streams reno^vn'd of name 

That roll their plenty through the freshen'd vale ; 

Dost thou then long to voyage far away, 

And visit other lands, that thou mayest view 
These varied scenes so beautiful and new I 

Thou dost not know how sad it is to stray 
Amid a foreign land, thyself unknown, 

And when overwearied with the toilsome d-ir, 
To rest at eve and feel thyself alone. 

Delightful sure it is at early morning 


To see the sun-beam shine on scenes so fair, 
And when the eve the mountain heights adorning 

Sinks slow, empurjsling the luxurious air. 
Pleasant it is at times like these to roam. 

But wouldst thou not at night, confined within 

Thy foul and comfortless and lonely inn, 
iJemember with a sigh the joys of home 1 


JoT, joy in London now! 
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death. 
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, 

Joy, joy in London now.' 

He on a sledge is drawn, 
His strong right arm imweapon'd and in chains, 
And garlanded around his helmless head 

The laurel wreath of scorn. 

They throng to view him now 
Who in the field had fled before his sword, 
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale 

And faltered out a prayer. 

Yes, they can meet his eye, 
That only beams with patient courage now ; 
Yes, they can gaze upon those manly limba 

Defenceless now and bound. 

And that eye did not shrink 
As he beheld the pomp of infamy. 
Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs 

When the last moment came. 

What though suspended sense 
Was by their danmed cruelty revived ; 
What though ingenious vengeance lengthened life 

To fell protracted death — 


What though the hangman's hand 
Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart, 
In the last agony, the last sick pang, 

Wallace had comfort stiU, 

He called to mind his deeds 
Done for his country in the embattled field ; 
He thought of that good cause for which he died, 

And it was joy in death ! 

Go, Edward, triumph now ! 
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is a'ush'd ; 
On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs 

The fowls of heaven have fed. 

Unrivalled, unopposed, 
"Jo, Edward, full of glory, to thy grave ! 
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul, 

Go, Edward, to thy God! 



Do I regi-et the past ? 

Would I again live o'er 

The morning hours of life ? 

Nay, Wilham, nay, not so! 
In the warm joyauuce of the summer sun. 

I do not wish again 

The changeful April day. 

Nay, William, nay, not so! 

Safe liaveu'd from the sea 

I would not tempt again 

The uncertain ocean's wrath. 
Praise be to him who made me what I am, 

Other I would not be. 
WTiy is it pleasant then to sit and talk 

Of days that are no more ? 
' AVhen in his own dear home 

The traveller rests at last. 
And tells how often in his wanderings 


Tlie thought of those far off 

Has made his eyes o'erflovr 

"With no unmanly tears; 

Delighted, he recalls 
Through what fair scenes his charmed feethare trod. 
But ever when he tells of perils past, 

And troubles now no more. 
His eyes most sparkle, and a i-eadier joy 

Flows rapid to his heart. 

No, "William, no, I would not live again 

The morning hours of life ; 

I would not be again 

The slave of hope and fear ; 

T would not learn again 
The wisdom by expei-ience hardly tauglil. 

To me tiie past presents 

No object for regret ; 

To me the present gives 

All cause for full content ; — 
The future, — it is now the cheerful noon, 
And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze 

"With eyes alive to joy ; 

"When the dark night descends, 
My weary lids I willingly shall close, 

Again to wake in light. 


AliAS for the oak of our fathers that stood 

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood! 

It grew and it flourish'd for many an age, 

And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage, 

But when it« strong branches were bent with the blast, 

It struck its roots deeper and flourish'd more fast. 

Its head towerVl high, and its branches spread round, 
For its roots were struck deep, and its heart it was sound j 
The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd. 
And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. 


Tlio oak of cur fathers to freedom was dear, 

Its leaves were lier crown, and its wood was her spear. 

Alas for the oak of our fathers that stood 

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk, 
It struck in its mouths and its juices it drunk ; 
The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food, 
And the oak was no longer the pride of the wood. 

The foresters saw and they gather'd around, 
Its roots still were fast, and its heart still was sound 
They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, 
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed. 

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd, 
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade ; 
Lopt and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, 
A monument now what its beauty has been. 

The oak has received its incurable wound; 
''hey have loosened the roots,though-';heheart maybe sound ; 
Vhat the travellers at distance green-floui-ishing see, 
Ire the leaves of the ivy that ruined the tree. 

Aas for the oak of our fathers that stood 

In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood! 


" The remembrance of youth is a sigh." — Ali'. 

^Ian hath a weary pilgrimage 

As through the world he wends ; 
On every stage from youth to age 

Still discontent attends : 
With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before. 
And still remembei-s with a sigh 

The days that are no moi c 

To school the little exile goes, 

Tom from his mother's arms,— 

"What then shall soothe his eai-liest woes, 
When novelty hath lost its charms ? 


Condemn'd to sufiFer tlirough the clay 
Bestraints which uo rewards re23ay, 

And cares where love has no concern, 
Hope lightens as sue counts the hours 

That hasten his return. 
Prom hard control and tyrant rules 
The unfeeling discipline of schools, 

The child's sad thoughts will roam, 
And tears will struggle in his eye 
While he remembers with a sigh 

The comforts of his home. 

Youth comes ; the toils and cai-es of life 

Torment the restless mind ; 
Where shall the tired and hai-ass'd heart 

Its consolation hnd 1 
Then is not youth as lancy tells 

Life's summer prime of joy ? 
Ah no ! for hopes too long delayed 
And feelings blasted or betrayed, 

The fabled bliss destroy, 
And he remembeis ^^•ith a sigh 
The careless days of infancy. 

Maturer manhood now arrives, 

And other thoughts come on. 
But with the baseless hopes of 30uth 

Its generous warmth is gone ; 
Cold calculating cares succeed, 
The timid thought, the wary deed, 

The dull realities of truth ; 
Back on the past he turns his eye 
Eemembering with an envious sigh 

The hapi^y dreams of youth. 

So reaches he the latter stage 
Of this our mortal i^ilgrimage 

With feeble steji and slow ; 
New ills that latter stage await 
And old experience learns too late 

That all is vanity below. 
Life's vain delusions are gone by, 

Its idle hopes are o'er, 
Yst age i-emembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 



"Bf.twene the cytee and the cliirche of Cethlehem, is the M<)e 
VloriJus, that is to seyne, the felde floriched. For als uioche as a fayru 
maydon was blamed with wrong and sclauudred, that slie hadde clon 
tornicacioun, for whiche cause sclie was dumed to tlie detlie, and to l)e 
brent in that place, to tlie whiche sche was ladd. And as the fyre 
began to brenne about hire, she made hire preyeres to oure Lord, tli:it 
als wissely as sche was not gylty of tliat synns, iliat he wold help iiire, 
and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercy fulle grace; ancl 
ivhanne she had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuycr, and anon was 
tlie fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that wcren bttnnynge, 
becomen white Roseres, fulle of roses, and theiae werein the first 
ttoseres and roses, bothe white and rede, that evere ony man saughe. 
And thus was this maiden saved be the grace of God."— 7''(e Vuiags 
and Travdile of Sir Jiilin Mauiideville. 

Nat Edith I spai^e the rose ; — it lives, it lives. 
It feels the noon-tide sun, and di-inks refresh "d 
The dews of night ; let not thy gentle hand 
Tear its life-strings asunder, and destroy 
The sense of being I — Why that infidel smile ? 
Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, 
And thou slialt have a tale of other times, 
For I am skill'd in legendary Lore, 
So thou wilt let it live. There was a time 
Ere this, the freshest sweetest flower that blooms, 
Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard 
How first by miracle its fragrant leaves 
Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. 
There dwelt at Bethlehem a Jewish maid 
And Zillah was her name, so passing fair 
■ That all .Judea spake the damsel's praise. 
He who had seen her eyes' dark radiance 
How it revealed her soul, and what a soul 
Beam'd in the mild effulgence, woe was he ! 
For not in solitude, for not in crowds, 
Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid 
Her imaged form which followed every where, 
And filled the heart, and fijs'd the absent eye. 
Woe was he, for her bosom own'd no love 
Save the strong ardours of religious zeal, 
For Zillah on her God had centered all 
Her spirit's deep affections. So for her 
Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced 
The obdurate virtue that destroyed their hopea 


One inan tliere was, a vaiu aud wretelied man 

Who saw, desired, despair'd, aud liated her. 

His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek 

Even till the flush of angry modesty 

(xave it new charms, and made liim gloat the more. 

She loath'd the man, for Hamuel's eye was bold, 

And the strong workings of bi'ute selfishness 

Had moulded his broad features ; and she fear'd 

The bitterness of wounded vanity 

That with a fiendish hue would overcast 

His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear, 

For Hamuel vowed revenge and laid a plot 

yvgainst hei- virgin fame. He spread abroad 

Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports 

W Kich soon obtain belief ; how Zillah's eye 

Yv'l.en in the temple heaven- ward it was rais'd 

Did .-Jwim with rapturous zeal, but there were those 

Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance 

With other feelings fiUed ; — that 'twas a task 

Of easy sort to play the saint by day 

Before the public eye, but that all eyes 

Were closed at night ; — that Zillah's life was foul, 

Yea, forfeit to the law. 

Shame — shame to man 
That he should trust so easily the tongue 
Which stabs anotlier's fame ! the ill report 
''Wa.s heard, repeated, and believed, — and soon, 
For Hamuel by his damned artifice 
Produced such semblances of guilt, the maid 
Was judged to shameful death. 

Without the walls 
There was a barren field ; a place abhorr'd, 
■for it was there where wretched criminals 
I^eceived their death ; and there they built the stake, 
And piled the fuel round, which should consume 
The accused maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd. 
By God and man. The assembled Bethlamitea 
Beheld the scene, and when they saw the maid 
Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness 
She lifted up her patient looks to heaven, 
They doubted of her g-uilt. With other thoughts 
Stood Hamuel near the pile ; him savage joy 
Led thitherward, but now within his heart 
Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs 


Of wakening guilt, anticipating hell. 

The eye of Zillah as it glanced around 

Fell on the murderer once, but not in wi-ath ; 

And therefore like a dagger it had fallen, 

Had struck into his soul a cureless wound. 

Conscience ! thou God within us ! not in tlie hour 

Of triumph, dost thou sjjare the guilty wretch, 

Not in the hour of infamy and deatli 

Forsake the virtuous ! they draw near the stake,— 

And lo I the torch ! — hold hold your erring hands ! 

Yet quench the rising ilames ! — they I'ise ! they spread ! 

They reach the suffering maid I Oh God protect 

The innocent one I 

They rose, they spread, they raged ; — 
The breath of God went forth ; the ascending fii-e 
Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames 
In one long lightning flash concentrating, 
Darted and blasted Hamuel, — him alone. 
Hark ! — what a fearful scream the multitude 
Pour forth ! — and yet more miracles ! the stake 
Buds out, and spreads its light green leaves, and bowej"s, 
The innocent maid, and roses bloom around, 
Now first beheld since Paradise was lost, 
And fill with Eden odours all the air. 


Sweet to the morning traveller 

The sky-lai'k's early song, 
Whose twinkling wings are seen at fitr 

The dewy Ught among. 

And cheering to the traveller 
The gales that round him play, 

When faint and heavily he drags 
Along his noon-tide way. 

And when beneath the unclouded sun 

Full wearily toib he, 
The flowing water makes to him 

A pleasant melody. 


And when the evening light decays 
And all is calm around, 

There is sweet music to his ear 
In the distant sheep-bells' sound. 

But oh ! of all delightful sounds 
Of evening or of morn, 

The sweetest is the voice of love. 
That welcomes his return. 


Nat William, nay, not so ; the changeful yeai* 

In all its due successions to my sight 

Presents but varied beauties, transient all, 

All in their season good. These fading leaves 

That with their rich variety of hues 

Make yonder forest in the silanting sun 

So beautiful, in you awake the thought 

Of winter, cold, drear winter, when these trees 

Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch 

Its bare brown boughs ; when not a flower shall spread 

Its colours to the day, and not a bird 

Carol its joyaunce — biit all nature wear 

One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, 

To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. 

To me their many-coloured beauties speak 

Of times of merriment and festival. 

The year's best holyday : I call to mind 

The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves 

I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign 

Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took 

My wooden kalender, and counting up 

Once more its often-told account, smooth'd oft* 

Each day with more delight the daily notch. 

To you the beauties oi the autumnal year 

Make mournful emblems, and you think of man 

Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke. 

Bending beneath the burthen of his years, 

Sense-dull'd and fretful, " full of aches and pains," 


Yet clinging still to life. To me they shew 

The calm decay of nature, when the mind 

Retains its strength, and in the languid eye 

Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy 

That makes old age look lovely. All to you 

Is dark and cheerless ; you in this fair world 

See some destroying jjrinciple abroad, 

Air, earth, and water full of living things, 

Each on the other preying ; and the ways 

Of man, a strange perplexing labyiiuth. 

Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, 

Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope 

That should in death bring comfoi't. Oh my frien 

That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see 

Death still producing life, and evil still 

"Working its own destruction ; couldst behold 

The strifes and tumults of this troubled world 

AVith the strong eye that sees the jDromised day 

Dawn through this night of tempest ! all things then 

Would minister to joy; then should thine heart 

Be healed and harmonized, and thou shoaldst feel 

God, always, everywhej-e, and all in all. 


Thou chronicle of crimes ! I read no more — 
For I am one who willingly would love 
His fellow kind. O gentle poesy, 
Receive me from the court's polluted scenes. 
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war. 
Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse 
My nature's better feelings, for my soul 
Sickens at man's misdeeds ! 

T spake — when lu ! 
She stood before me in her mjjesty, 
Clio, the strong-eyed muse. Upon her brow 
Sate a calm anger. Go — young man, she cried, 
Sigh among myrtle bowei-s, and let thy soul . 
Etfuse itself in strains so soiTowful sweet, 
That love-sick maids may weep upon thy yiage 
in most delicious sorrow. Oh shame ! shame ! 


"Was it for this I waken'd tliy young mind ? 
Was it for tliis I made thv swelling heart 
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye 
So kindle when that glorious Spai'tan died ? 
Boy ! boy ! deceive me not ! what if the tale 
Of murder'd millions strike a chilling pang, 
What if Tiberius in his island stews, 
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire 
Strong anger and contempt ; hast thou not risen 
With nobler feelings ? with a deeper love 
For freedom ? Yes — most righteously thy soul 
Loathes the black history of human crimes 
And hximan misery ! let that spirit fill 
Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to raise 
Strains such as Cato might have deign'd to hear. 
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love. 

DECIMBEE, 1793. 

Though now no more the musing ear 
Delights to listen to the breeze, 
That lingers o'er the green wood shade, 
I love thee, winter ! well. 

Sweet ai'e the harmonies of spring, 
Sweet is the summer's evening gale. 
And sweet the autumnal winds that shake 
The many-coloured gi'ove. 

A nd pleasant to the sobered soul 
The sUence of the wintry scene. 
When natiue shrouds her in her trance 
In deep tranquillity. 

Not undelightful now to roam 
The wild heath sparkling on the sight; 
Not vmdelightful now to pace 
The forest's ample rounds • 


And see the spangled branches shine, 
And mark the moss of many a hue 
That varies the old tree's brown bark, 
Or o'er the gi'ay stone spreads. 

And mark the chistered berries bright 
Amid the holly's gay green leaves ; 
The ivy round the leafless oak 
That clasps its foliage close. 

So virtue diffident of strength 
Clings to religion's fu'mer aid, 
And by religion's aid upheld 
Endures calamity. 

Nor void of beauties now the spring, 
"Whose waters hid from summer sun 
Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's ear 
With more than melody. 

The gi-een moss shines with icy glare ; 
The long grass bends its spear-like form; 
And lovely is the silvery scene 
When faint the sun-beams smile. 

Reflection, too, may love the hour 
When nature, hid in winter's grave, 
No more expands the bursting bud, 
Or bids the flowret bloom. 

For nature soon in spring's best charms 
Shall rise revived from winter's grave. 
Again expand the bursting bud, 
And bid the flowret bloom. 


JANUARY, 1794. 

Come melanchol}' moralizer, cou.e I 

Gather with me the dark and wuit)'y wreath; 

With me engarhvnd now 

The sepulchre of Time ! 

Come, moralizer, to the funeral ;5ong ! 
1 jDOur the dirge of the departed days; 

For well the funeral song 

Befits this solemn hour. 

But hark ! even now the merry bells ring roumi 
AVith clamorous joy to welcome in this day, 

This consecrated day, 

To mirth and indolence. 

Mortal ! whilst fortune with benignant hand 
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, 

Whilst her unclouded sun 

Illumes tliy summer day. 

Canst thou rejoice, — rejoice that time flies fast 1 
That night shall shadow soon thy summer sun i 

That s^\'ift the stream of years 

Rolls to eteruity ? 

If tuou hast wealth to gi'atify each wisli. 
If power be tliiue, remember what thou art } 

Remember thou art man, 

And death thine heritage ! 

Hast thou known love ! doth beauty's better sun 
'Jhecr thy fr>nd heart with no capricious smile, 

Her eye all eloquence, 

All hai'iiiony her voice ] 

Oh state of happiness ! — hark how the gale 
Moans deep and hollow o'ei- the leafless grove ! 

Winter is dark and cold ; 

Y/here now the charms of snrinp; ! 


Sayest thou that fancy paints the future scene 
In liues too sombrous 'I that the dark-stoled maid 

With stern and frowning front 

App;Js the shuddering soxil ? 

And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form 
"\Mien, as slie sports her in some happier mood, 

Her many-coloured robes 

Dance varymg to the sun ? 

Ah I vainly does the pilgrim, whose long road 
Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height 

With anxious gaze survey 

The quiet vale, far otf. 

Oh there are those who love the pensive song, 
To whom all sounds of mii'th are dissonant ! 

They at this solemn hour 

Will love to contemplate ! 

For hopeless sorrow liails the lapse of time, 
iiejoicing when the fading orb of day 

Is sunk again in night, 

That one day Diore is gone. 

And he who bears affliction's heavy load 
"Witli patient piety, well pleased he knows 

The world a pilgrimage, 

The grave the iun of rest. 


Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 

I to the woodlands wend, and there 
In lovely natm-e see the God of love. 

The swelling organ's peal 

Wakes not my soul to zeal, 
Like the vsild music of the wind-swept grove. 
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest 
Bouse not such ardour in my bi-east. 


As where the noon-ticle beam 
Flashed from the broken stream, 
Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; 
Or where the cloud-suspended rain 
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ; 
Or when reclining on the cliff's hucre height 
T mark the billows burst in silver light. 
Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 
I to the woodlands shall repair, 
Feed with all nature's charms mine eyes, 
And hear all nature's melodies. 
The primrose bank shall there dispense 
Faint fragrance to the awakened sense ; 
The morning beams that life and joy impart, 
Shall with their influence warm my heart. 
And the lull tear that down my cheek will steal 
Shall speak the prayer of praise I feel ! 

Go thou and seek the house of prayer ! 
I to the woodlands bend my way, 

And meet religion there. 
She needs not haunt the high-arched dome to pray 
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: 
With liberty she loves to rove, 

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale ; 
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove. 

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. 
Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the night 
Pours in the north her silver streams of light, 
She woos reflection in the silent gloom, 
And ponders on the world to come. 



And I was once like this ! that glowing cheek 
Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes; that brc". 
Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze 
Dies o'er the sleeping surface ! Twenty years 
Have wrought strange alteration ! Of the friends 
Who once so dearly prized tins miniature, 

THE pauper's funeral. 379 

And loved it for its likeness, some are gone 

Ta their last home ; and some, estranged in heart, 

Beholding me, with quick-averted glance 

Pass on the other side. But still these hues 

Remain unaltered, and these features wear 

The look of inlimcy and innocence. 

I search myself in vain, and find no trace 

Of what I was : those lightly-arching lines 

Dark and o'erhangiug now; and that sweet face 

Settled in these strong lineaments ! — There were 

Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee, 

Young Eobert ; for thine eye was quick to speak 

Each opening feeling: should they not have known, 

If the rich rainbow on the morning cloud 

Reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman 

Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees 

Impending storms. — They augiu-ed happily, 

That thou didst love each wUd and wondrous tale 

Of fairy fiction, and thine infant tongue 

Lisped with delight the godlike deeds of Greece 

And rising Rome ; therefore they deemed, forsooth, 

That thou sliould tread preferment's pleasant path. 

Ill-judging ones ! they let thy little feet 

Stray in the pleasant paths of poesy, 

And when thou shouldst have prest amid the crowd. 

There didst thou love to linger out the day, 

Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. 

Spirit of Spenser ! was the wanderer wrong ] 


What ! and not one to heave the pious sighT 

Not one whose sorrow-swoln and aching eye 

For social scenes, for life's endearments fled. 

Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead ! 

Poor wretched outcast! I will weep for thee, 

And sorrow for forlorn humanity. 

Yes, I will weep ; but not that thou art come 

To the stern sabbath of the silent tomb : 

For squalid want, and the black scorpion care, 

Heart-withering fiends ! shall never enter there. 


I sorrow for the ills thy life has known, 

As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone, 

Haunted by poverty and woe-begone, 

Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on : 

Thy youth in ignorance and labour past, 

And thine old age all barrenness and blast ! 

Hard was thy fate, ^\'hich, while it doomed to woe, 

Denied thee wisdom to support the blow ; 

And robbed of all its energy thy mind, 

Ei-e yet it cast thee on thy fellow-kind, 

Abject of thought, the victim of distress, 

To wander in the world's wide wilderness. 

Poor outcast, sleep in peace I the wintry storm 
Blows bleak no more on thine unsheltered form ; 
Thy woes are past ; thou restest in the tomb ; — 
I pause — and ponder on the days to come. 


A NL they have drowned thee then at last ! poor Phillis ! 

The burthen of old age was heavy on thee. 

And yet thou shouldst have lived! What though thine eye 

Was dim, and watched no more with eager joy 

The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk 

With fruitless repetition, the warm sun 

Might still have cheered thy slumber: thou didst love 

To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past 

Youth's active season, even life itself 

Was comfort. Poor old friend! how earnestly 

Would I have pleaded for thee ! thou hadst been 

Still the companion of my childish sports ; 

And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs, 

From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark 

Recalled my wandering souk I have beguiled 

Often the melancholy hours at school. 

Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought 

Uf distant home, and I remembered then 

Thy faithful fondness : for not mean the joy, 


Returning a*", the i leasant holidays, 

I felt from tliy dnnib welcome. Pensively 

Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, 

Feeling myself changed too, and musing much 

On many a sad vicissitude of life ! 

Ah, poor comjifvnion! when thou foUowedst last 

Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate 

Which closed for ever on him, thou didst lose 

Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead 

For the old age of brute fidelity! 

But fare tliee well ! IMine is no narrow creed ; 

And He who gave thee being did not frame 

The mystery of life to be the sport 

Of merciless man ! Tliere is another world 

For all that live and move — a better one ! 

Where the proud bii^eds, who would fain confine 

Infinite Goodness to the little bounds 

Of their own charity, may envy thee! 


PoussiN ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes 
Beguile the lonely hour! I sit and gaze 
With lingermg eye, till charmed fancy makes 
The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul 
From the foul haunts of herded human-kind 
Flies far away with spirit sj^eed, and tastes 
The untainted ah', that with the lively hu<^ 
Ot health and happiness illumes the cheek 
Of mountain liberty. INIy willing soul, 
All eager, follows on thy faiiy flights, 
Fancy ! best friend ; whose blessed witcheries 
With loveliest prospects cheat the traveller 
O'er the long wearying desert of the world. 
Nor dost thou, fancy! with such magic mock 
My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, 
Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage, 
Wliose vengeful anguish for so many a year 
Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced 
Lisvart and Perion, pride of chivalry. 


Friend of my lonely Lours ! tliou leadest me 

To such calm joys as nature, wise and good, 

Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons; 

Her wretched sons who pine with want amid 

The abundant earth, and blindly bow tliem down 

Before the Moloch shrines of wealth and power, 

Authors of evil. Oh, it is most sweet 

To medicine vvith thy wiles the wearied heart. 

Sick of reality. The little pile 

That tops the summit of that craggy hill 

Shall be my dwelling: craggy is the hill 

And steep ; yet through yon hazles upward leads 

The easy path, along whose winding way, 

Now close emljowered, I hear the uuseen stream 

Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam 

Gleam through the thicket ; and ascending on, 

Now pause me to survey the goodly vale 

That opens on my vision. Half-way up, 

Pleasant it were upon some broad smooth rock 

To sit and sun myself, and look below. 

And watch the goatherd down yon high-banked path 

Urging his flock grotesque ; and bidding now 

His lean rough dog from some near clifl' to drive 

The straggler ; while his barkings loud and quick 

Amid their trembling bleat arising oft, 

Fainter and fainter, from the hollow road 

Send their far echoes, till the waterfall, 

Hoarse bursting from the caverned cliff beneath, 

Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet 

Onward, and I have gained the upmost height. 

Fair spi-eads the vale below : I see the stream 

Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. 

A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep, 

Where the town-spires behind the castle towera 

Else graceful ; brown the mountain in its shade. 

Whose circling grandeur, part by mists concealed, 

Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun, 

Should bound mine eyes, — ay, and my wishes too,— 

For I would have no hope or fear beyond. 

ITie empty turmoil of the worthless world. 

Its vanities and vices, would not vex 

My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld 

The low tower of the little pile, might deem 

It were the house of God : nor would ne err, 


So deeming, for that home would be the home 

Of peace and love, and they would hallow it 

To Him. Oh, life of blessedness ! to reap 

The fruit ol honourable toil, and bound 

Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts, 

That soothe the solitude of maniac hope, 

Ye leave her to reality awaked, 

Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dreaiu 

Of friends and liberty and home restored, 

Startled and listening, as the midnight storm 

Beats hard and heavy through his dangeon bars. 


Alas for this world's changes and the lot 

Of sublunary tilings ! yon wig that there 

Moves with each motion of the inconstant air, 
Invites my pensive mind to serious thought. 
Was it for tliis its curious caul was wi-ought 

Close as the tender tendrils of the vine 
With cluster'd curls 1 Pei-haps the artist's cane 
Its borrowed beauties for some lady fair 

Arranged with nicest art and fingers fine ; 

Or for the forehead fram'd of some divine 
Its graceful gravity of grizzled grey; 

Or whether on some stern schoolmaster's brow 

Sate its white terrors, "who shall answer now ? 
On yonder rag-robed pole for many a day 

Have those dishonoui-'d locks endiu-'d the rains 
And winds, and summer sun, and winter snow, 
Scaring with vain alarms the robber crow, 

Till of its former form no trace remains, 
None of its ancient honours ! I survey 

Its alter'd state with moralizing eye, 
And journey sorrowing on my lonely wa". 

And muse on fortune's mutability. 



Faint gleams the evening radiance through the sky, 
The sober twilight dimly darkens round ; 

Tn short quick circles the shrill hat flits by, 
And the slow vapour curls along the ground. 

Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees 

On the green mead the smoke long-shadowing plaj ; 

The red-breast on the blossomed spray 

Warbles wild her latest lay, 
And sleeps along the dale the silent breeze. 
Calm contemplation, 'tis thy fixvourite hour ! 

Come tranquillizing power ! 

view thee on the calmy shore 

When ocean stills his waves to rest ; 
Or when slow-moving on the serges hoar 
Meet with deep hollow roar 

And whiten o'er his breast ; 
For lo ! the moon with softer radiance gleams, 
And lovelier heave the billows in her beams. 

When the low gales of evening moan along, 
I love with thee to feel the calm coo! breeze. 

And roam the pathless forest wilds among 
Listening the mellow murmur of the trees 

FuU-foliaged, as they lift their arms on high 
And wave their shadowy heads in wildest molody. 

Or lead me where amid the tranquil vale 
The broken stream flows on in silver light, 

And I will linger where the gale 
O'er the bank of violets sighs, 

Listening to hear its softened sounds arise ; 
And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy fliglit ' 
And watch the horn-eyed snail 
Creep o'er his long moon-glittering trail, 
And mark where, radiant through the night, [light. 

Moves in the i'rass-PTeen hedfe the srlow-worin's living 

To Contemplation. 

P. 385 


Thee, meekest power ! 1 love to meet , 

As oft with even solitary pace 

The scattered abbey's hallowed rounds I trace 
And listen to the echoings of my feet. 

Or on the half-demolished tomb, 

Whose warning texts anticipate my doom, 

Alark the clear orb of night 
Cast through the storying glass a faintly-varied light. 

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour 

Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, 

Wandering beneath the sainted pile 

When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, 

And clattering patters aU aroimd 

The midnight shower with di'eary sound. 

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild 

By melancholy dreams beguiled, 

While the summer moon's pale ray 

Fauitly guides me on my way 

To the lone romantic glen 

Far from all the haunts of men. 

Where no noise of ui:)roar rude 

Breaks the calm of solitude. 

But soothing silence sleeps in all, 

Save the neighbouring waterfall. 

Whose hoarse waters falling near 

Load with hollow sounds the ear, 

And with down-dasht torrent white 

Gleam hoary through the shades of night. 

Thus wandering silent on and slow 

I'll nurse reflection's sacred woe. 

And muse uj^ou the perisht day 

When hope would weave her visions gay, 

Ere Fancy chilled by adverse fate 

Left sad Keality my mate. 

O Contemplation ! when to memory's eyes 
The visions of the long-past days arise, 
Thy holy power imparts the best relief. 
And the calmed s])irit loves the joy of grief. 



Dark Horror, liear my call ! 

Stern genius liear from thy retreat 

On some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat 
Beneath the abbey's ivied wall 

That trembles o'er its shade ; 
Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone, 

Thou lovest to lie and hear 

The roar of waters near, ^ 

And listen to the deep dull groan ' 

Of some perturbed sprite 
3orne fitful on the hnavy gales of night. 

Or whether o'er some wide waste hill 

Thou markest the traveller stray, 

Bewildered on liis lonely way. 
AVhen, loud and keen and chill. 
The evening winds of winter bloAV, 
Drifting deep the dismal snow. 

Or if thou foUowest now on Greenland's shore, 

With all thy terrors, on the lonely way 
Of some wrecked mariner, when to the roar 

Of lierded bears, the floating ice-hills round 

Pour their deep echoing sound. 

And by the dim drear boreal light 
Givest half his dangers to the wretch's sight. 

Or if thy fury form, 

When o'er the midnight deep 

The dark-winged tempests sweep, 
\Vatches from some high cliff the increasing storm, 

Listening with strange delight, 
As the black bUlows to the thunder rave 

When by the lightning's light 
Thou seest the tall ship suik beneath the wave. 

Dark Horror ! bear me where the field of fight 
Scatters contagion on the tainted gale, 
When to the moon's faint beam, 

TO iioRKon. CS7 

On many a carcase shine the dews of night, 
And a dead silence stills the vale 
Save when at times is heard the glutted raven's scream. 

Where some ■wrecked army from the conquerors might 
Speed their disastrous flight, 

With thee, fierce genius ! let me trace their way, 
And hear at times the deep heart-groan 
Of some poor sufferer left to die alone, 

His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night; 
And we will pause, where, on the wild. 

The mother to her frozen breast. 
On the heaped snows reclining clasps her child. 

And with him sleeps, chilled to eternal rest ! 

Black Horror ! speed we to the bed of death, 

Where he whose murderous power afar 

Blasts with the myriad plagues of war. 
Struggles with his last breath ; 

Then to his wildty-starting eyes 

The phantoms of the murdered rise ; 

Then on his phrensied ear 
Their groans for vengeance and the demon's j'ell 
In one heart-maddening chorus swell. 
Cold on his brow convulsuig stands the dow. 
And night eternal darkens on his view. 

Horror ! I call thee yet once more I 

Bear me to that accursed shore 

Where round the stake the impaled negro writhes. • 

Assume thy sacred terrors then ! dispense 

The blasting gales of pestilence I 

Ai'ouse the race of Afric ! holy power, 

Lead them to vengeance ! and in that dread hour 

When ruin rages wide, 

I will behold and smile by Mercy's side. 



And wouldst thou seek the low cibode 

^VTiere peace delights to dwell ? 
Pause traveller on thy way of life I 
With many a snare and peril rife 

Is that long labyrinth of road : 
Dark is the vale of years before ; 

Pause traveller on thy way ! 
Nor dare the dangerous path explore 
Tin old experience comes to lend his leading ray. 

Not he who comes with lanthorn light 
Shall guide thy groping pace aright 

"With faltering feet and slow ; 
No ! let him rear the torch on high, 
And every maze shall meet thine eye, 

And every snare and every foe ; 
Then with steady step and strong, 
Traveller, shalt thou march along. 

Though power invite thee to her hall, 
Regard not thou her tempting call 

Her sjDlendour's meteor glare ; 
Though courteous flattery there await 
And wealth adorn tlie doom of state. 

There stalks the midnight spectre, Care ; 

Peace, traveller ! does not sojourn there. 

If fame allure thee, climb not thou 
To that steep mountain's craggy brow, 

Where stands her stately pile; 
For far from thence does peace abide. 

And thou shalt find fame's favouring smile 
Cold as the feeble sun on Hecla's snow-clad sidj 

A.nd, traveller I as thou hopest to find 
That low and loved abode, 
Retire thee from the thronging road, 

And shun the mob of human-kind. 

Ah I hear how old experience schools, 

" Fly, fly the crowd of knaves and foola, 


And thou shalt fly from woe ; 
The one thy heedless lieart will greet 
With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet 

lu every fool a foe !" 

So safely mayst thou pass from these, 

And reach secure the home of peace, 
And friendship find thee there. 

No happier state can mortal know, 
No happier lot can earth bestow, 

If love thy lot shall share. 
Yet still content with him may dwell 

Whom Hymen will not bless, 
And virtue sojourn in the cell 

Of hermit happiness. 


Looiv, William, how the morning mists 

Have covered all the scene, 
Nor house nor hill canst thou behold. 

Grey wood, or meadow green. 

The distant spire across the vale 
These floating vapours yJu'Oud, 

Scarce are the neighbouring poplars seen, 
Pale shadowed in the cloud. 

But seest thou, William, where the mists 

Sweep o'er the southern sky. 
The dim eff"ulgence of the sun 

That lights them as they fly ? 

Soon shall that glorious orb of day 

In all his strength arise, 
And roll along his azui*e way, 

Tlirough clear and cloudless skies. 

Then shall we see across the vale 

The village spire so white, 
And the grey wood and meadow green 

Shall live again in light. 


So, William, from the moral world 

The clouds shall pass away ; 
The light that struggles through them now 

ohall beam eternal day. 


Dlithe son of summer, furl thy filmy whig, 
Alight beside me on this bank of moss ; 

Yet to its sides the lingering shadows cling, 
And sparkling dews the dark-green tufts emboss. 

Here mayst thou freely quaff the nectar 'd sweet 
That in the violet's purple chalice hides. 

Here on the lily scent thy fringed feet, 

Or with the wild-thyme's balm anoint thy sides. 

Eack o'er thy shoulders throw those ruby shards 
With many a tiny coal-black freckle deckt. 

My watchful look thy loitei'ing savmter guards. 
My ready hand thy footstep shall protect. 

Daunted by me beneath this trembling bough 
On forked wing no greedy swallow sails, 

No hopping spai-row pries for food below, 
Nor evet lurks, nor dusky blind worm trails. 

Nor shall the swarthy gaoler for thy way 

His grate of twinkling threads successful strain, 

With venom'd trunk thy writhing members slay, 
Or from thy heart the reeking life's-blood drain. 

Forego thy -nheeling in the sunny air. 
Thy glancing to the envious insects round, 

To the dim calmness of my bower repair. 

Silence and coolness keejj its hallowed grouni 

Here to the elves who sleep in flowers by day 
Thy softest hum m lulling whispers pour. 

Or o'er the lovely band thy shield display, 

When blue-eyed twilight sheds her dewy shower. 

• A proviucial uame of the beetle coccinella, or ludy-bird. 


So shall the t'aby-train by glow-worm light 
With I'ahibow tiuts thy folding pennous fret, 

Thy scaly breast iu deeper azure flight, 

Thy burnish'd arnioui' speck with glossier jet 

^Vith viewless fingers weave thy wintry tent 
And line with gossamer thy pendant cell, 

Safe in the liit of some lone i-uiu pent 

Where ivy shelters from the storm-wind fell 

Blest if like thee I crept with heedless spoil 
The gifts of youth and pleasure in their bloom, 

Doom'd for no coming winter's want to toil, 
Fit for the spi-ing that waits beyond the tomb. 



Eare music ! I would rather hear cat-courtship 

Under my bed-room window in the night, 

Thau this scraped cat-gut's sci'eak. Bare dancing too ! 

Alas, poor bruin ! how he foots the pole 

And waddles round it with unwieldy steps 

Swaying from side to side ! — Tlie dancing master 

Hath had as profitless a pupil in thee 

As when he would have tortured my poor toes 

To minuet grace, and made them move like clock-work 

In musical obedience. Bruin ! bruin I 

Thou art but a clmnsy biped ! — and the mob 

With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace, 

And laugh to see him led by the nose, — themselveii 

Led by the nose, embruted, and in the eye 

Of reason from their nature's pm'poses 

As miserably perverted. 

Now could I sonnetize thy piteous ])light, 
And prove how much my sympathetic heart 
Even for the miseries of a beast can feel. 


111 fourteeu lines of sensibility. 

But we are told all things were made for niati, 

And I'll be sworn there's not a fellow here 

Who would not swear 'twere hanging blasphemy 

To doubt that truth. Therefore as thou wert born, 

Bruin ! for man, and man makes nothing of thee 

In any other way, most logically 

It follows, that thou must be born to dance, 

That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose 

To hold a ring, and that thy fat was given thee 

Only to make pomatum I 

To demiu" 
AVere heresy. And politicians say, 
(Wise men who in the scale of reason give 
No foolish feelings weight,) that thou art here 
Far happier than thy lirother bears who roam 
O'er trackless snows for food ; that being born 
Inferior to thy leader, unto him 
Rightly belongs dominion ; that the compact 
Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet 
First fell into the snare, and he gave up 
His right to kill, conditioning thy life 
Should thenceforth be his property : — besides, 
'Tis wholesome for tliy morals to be brought 
From savage climes into a civilized state. 
Into the decencies of Christendom. — 
Bear ! bear ! it passes in the parliament 
For excellent logic this ! what if we say 
1 low barbarously man abuses power, 
'i'alk of thy baiting, it will be replied, 
Thy welfare is thy owner's interest, 
But wert thou baited it would injure thee, 
Tlierefore thou art not baited. For seven ye,ar8 
I [ear it, heaven, and give ear, O earth I 
For seven long years this precious syllogiam 
Has baffled justice and humanity 1 



Yet one song more ! one Irigli and solemn straio 

Ere, Phoebus ! on thy temple's ruined wall 

I hang the silent harp : there may its strings, 

When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile, 

Make melancholy music. One song more! 

Penates ! hear me ! for to you I hymn 

The votive lay. Whether, as sages deem, 

Ye dwell in the inmost heaven, tL e coimsellora 

Of Jove ; or, if, supreme of deities, 

All things are youi's, and in your holy trahi 

Jove proudly ranks, and Juno, white-armed queen. 

And wisest of immortals, the dread maid, 

Athenian Pallas. Venerable poweis ! 

Hearken your hymn of praise! Though from yourritt 

Estranged, and exiled from your altars long, 

I have not ceased to love you, household gods ! 

In many a long and melancholy hour 

Of solitude and sorrow, hath my heart 

With earnest longings prayed to rest at length 

Beside yoTir hallowed hearth. . .for peace is there! 

Yes, I have loved you long. I call on you 

Yourselves to witness with what holy joy, 

Shunning the jjolishVl mob of human kind, 

I have retired to watch your lonely fires, 

And commmie with myself. Delightful houra, 

That gave mysterious pleasure, made me kno'>/ 

All the recesses of my wayward heart, 

Taught me to cberish with devoutesfc care 

Its strange unworldly feelings, taught me too 

The best of lessons — to respect myself. 

Nor have I ever ceased to reverence you, 

Domestic deities! from tlie first dawn 

Of reason, through the adventurous patlis of yo:;lb, 

Even to this better day, when on mine ear 

The uproar of contending nations sounds 

But like the pa,ssing Avind, and wakes no pulse 

To tumult. When a child — (and still I love 

To dwell with fondness on my childish years). 

When first a little one, I left my home, 


I can remember tlie first grief I felt, 

And the first painful smile tliat clothed my front 

With feelings not its own : sadly at night 

I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth ; 

And when the lingering hour of rest was come, 

First wet with tears my pUlow. As I grew 

In years and knowledge, and the conrse of time 

Developed the young feelings of my heart, 

When most I loved in solitude to rove 

Amid the woodland gloom ; or where the rocks 

Darkened old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave 

Hecluse, to sit and brood the future song, — 

Yet not the less, Penates, loved I then 

Your altars, not the less at evening hour 

Delighted by the well-trimmed fii'e to sit, 

Absorbed in many a dear deceitful dream 

Of visionaiy joys: deceitful dreams — 

And yet not vain — for painting jjui-est joys, 

They formed to fancy's mould her votary's heart. 

By Cherwell's sedgy side, and in the meads 

Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects 

The willow's bending boughs, at early dawn. 

In the noontide hour, and when the night-mist rose, 

I have remembered you : and when the noise 

Of lewd intemjierance on my lonely ear 

Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sat, 

Pondering on loftiest themes of man redeemed 

From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness, 

I blest you, household gods I because I loved 

Your peaceful altars and serener rites. 

Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven 

Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man 

To mingle with the world ; still, still my heart 

Sighed for your sanctuary, and inly pined ; 

And loathing human converse, I have strayed 

Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howled the blast, 

And gazed upon the world of waves, and wished 

That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep, 

In woodland haunts, a sojourner with peace. 

Not idly fabled they the bards inspu-ed, 

Wlio peopled earth with deities. They trod 

The wood with reverence where the Dryads dwelt; 


At ilay's dim dawn or evening's misty liour 

riiey saw tLe Oreads on their mountain liaunts, 

And felt their holy influence ; nor impure 

Of thought, or ever with polluted hands 

Touched they without a prayer the Naiad's spring : 

Yet was their influence transient ; such brief awe 

Inspiring as the thunder's long loud peal 

Strikes to the feeble spirit. Household gods, 

Not such your empire ! in your votaries' breasts 

No momentary impulse ye awake ; 

Nor fleeting, like their local energies, 

The deep devotion that your fanes impart. 

O je, whom youth has wildered on your way. 

Or vice with fair-masked foulness, or the lure 

Of fame, that calls ye to. her crowded paths 

With folly's rattle, to your household gods 

Eeturn ; for not in vice's gay abodes. 

Not in the unquiet unsafe halls of fume 

Doth happiness abide ! O ye who weep 

i\Iucli for the many miseries of mankind, 

More for their vices ; ye whose honest eyes 

Frown on oppression, — ye whose honest hearts 

Eeat high when freedom sounds her dread alaviu ; 

O ye who quit the path of peaceful life 

Crusading for mankind — a spaniel race 

That lick the hand that beats them, or tear all 

Alike in phrensy — to your household gods 

Eeturn, lor by their altars virtue dwells. 

And happiness with her ; for by their tii-es 

Tranquillity, in no unsocial mood. 

Sits silent, listening to the pattering shower ; 

For, so suspicion sleeps not at the gate 

Of wisdom, falsehood shall not enter there. 

As on the height of some huge eminence, 
Reached with long labonr, the wayfaring man 
Pa'dses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain, 
Witli many a sore step travelled, turns him then 
Serious to contemplate the onward road, 
And caUs to mind the comforts of his home, 
And sighs that he has left them, and resolvea 
To stray no more : I on my way of life 
Muse thus, Penates, and with firmest faitli 
Devote myself to you. I will not quit, 


To mingle with the crowd, your eahu abodes, 
Where by the evening hearth contentment sits 
And hears the cricket chirp ; where love delighta 
To dwell, and on yom- altars lays his torch 
Tliat bnrns with no extingiiishable flame. 

Hear me, ye powers benignant! there is one 
Must be mine inmate — for I may not choose 
But love him. He is one whom many wrongs 
Have sickened of the world. There was a time 
When he would weep to hear of wickedness. 
And wonder at the tale ; when for the opprest 
He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor 
A good man's honest anger. His quick eye 
Betrayed each rising feeling, every thought 
Leapt to his tongue. When first among mankind 
He mingled, by himself he judged of them, 
And loved and trusted them, to wisdom deaf, 
And took them to his bosom. Falsehood met 
Her unsuspecting victim, fair of front, 
And lovely as Apega's sculptured form, 
Like that false image, caught his warm embraco 
And gored his open breast. The reptile race 
Clung round his bosom, and, with viper folds 
Encircling, stung the fool who fostered them. 
His mother was simplicity, his sire 
Benevolence ; in earlier days he bore 
His father's name ; the world who injured him 
Call him misanthropy. I may not choose 
But love him, household gods ! for we were nurst 
In the same school. 
"• Penates! some there are 

Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell 
Gazing with eye remote on all the ways 
Of man, his guardian gods ; wiselier they deem 
A dearer interest to the human race 
links you, yourselves the spirits of the dea,d. 
No mortal eye may piei'ce the invisible woi-ld. 
No light of human reason penetrate 
The depth where truth lies hid. Yet to this faith 
]\Iy heart with instant sympathy assents ; 
And I would judge all systems and all faiths 
By that best touchstone, from whose test deceit 
Shrinks like the arch-fiend at Ithuriel's sjiear, 


Aud sojjhistry's gay glittering bubble bursts, 
As at the spousals of the Nereid's son, 
When that false Florimel, by her prototype 
Displayed in livalry, with all her charms 
Dissolved away. 

Nor can the halls of heaven 
Give to the human soul such kindred joy, 
As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels, 
When with the breeze it vraiitons round the brow 
Of one beloved on earth ; or when at night 
In dreams it comes, and brings with it the days 
And joys that are no more. Or when, perchance 
With power permitted to alleviate ill 
And tit the sufferer for the coming woe. 
Some strange presage the Spu'it breathes, and fills 
The breast with ominous fear, and disciplines 
For sorrow, poiu's into the afflicted heart 
The balm of resignation, and inspires 
With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights 
To visit day by day the flivourite plant 
His hand has sov/n, to mark its gradual growth, 
And watch all-anxious for the promised tlower; 
Thus to the blessed spu"it, in innocence 
And pui'e affections, like a little child. 
Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends 
Beloved; then sweetest, if, as Duty i^rompts, 
With eai'thly care we in their breasts have sown 
The seeds of truth and vii-tue, holy flowers, 
Whose odour reacheth heaven. 

When my sick heart 
(Sick with hope long delayed, than which no care 
Presses the crushed heart heavier ;) from itself 
Seeks the best comfort, often have I deemed 
That thou didst witness every inmost thought, 
Seward ! my dear dead friend ! for not in vain, 
O early summoned on thy heavenly course ! 
Was thy brief sojourn here : me didst thou leave 
With sti'engthened step to follow the right path 
Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe 
The deep regret of natm-e, with belief, 
O Edmund! that thine eye's celestial ken 
Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy 
The movements of the heart that loved thee well 1 


Such feelings nature prompts, and hence your rites, 

Domestic gods ! arose. When for his son 

With ceaseless grief Syi'ophanes bewailed, 

IM^urning his age left childless, and his wealth 

Hcapt for an alien, he with fixed eye 

Still on the imaged marble of the dead 

Dwelt, pamjDering sorrow. Thither from his wrath, 

A safe asylum, fled the oflFending slave, 

And garlanded the statue, imd implored 

His young lost lord to save : remembrance then 

Softened the father, and he loved to see 

The votive wreath renewed, and the rich sraoko 

Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet. 

From EgyjDt soon the sorrow-soothing rites 

Divulging spread ; before youi- idol forms 

By every hearth the blinded pagan knelt, 

Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there 

Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes 

With human blood your sanctviary defiled: 

Till the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief, 

A rose ; he first the impious rites put down ; 

He fitliest, who for freedom lived and died, 

The friend of human kind. Then did your feasts 

Frequent recur and blameless ; and when came 

The solemn festival, vv^hose happiest rites 

Emblemed equality, the holiest truth I 

Crowned with gay garlands were your statues seen, 

To you the fragrant censer smoked, to you 

The rich libation flowed: vam sacrifice! 

For nor the poppy wreath nor fruits nor wiuo 

Ye ask, Penates ! nor the altar cleansed 

With many a mystic form ; ye ask the heart 

JSfade pure, and by domestic peace and love, 

HaUowed to you. 

Hearken your hymn of praise, 
Penates! to your shrines I come for rest. 
There only to be found. Often at eve, 
Amid my wanderings I have seen far off 
The lonely light that spake of comfort there; 
It told my heart of many a joy of home, 
And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazed 
From some high eminence on goodly vales 
And cots and villages embowei'etl below, 

HYMN TO illfl PENATES. 393 

The thought would rise that all to me was straii"-9 
Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot ° 

Where my tired mind might rest and call it home. 
There is a magic in tliat little word ; 
It is a mystic cii-clo that surrounds 
Comforts and virtues never known beyond 
The hallowed limit. Often has my heart 
Ached for that quiet haven ! — havened now 
T thuik of those in this world's wilderness 
Who wander on and find no home of rest 
Till to the grave they go! them poverty, 
Hollow-eyed fiend, the child of wealth and po\Fer 
Bad ofispring of worse parents, aye afllicts, ' 

Cankering vvdth her foul mildews the chilled heart 

Them want with scorpion scourge drives to the deu 
Of guilt — them slaughter for the price of death 
Throws to her raven brood. Oh, not on them, 
God of eternal justice ! not on them 
Let fall thy thimder ! 

Household deities ! 
Then only shall be happiness on earth 
When man shall feel your sacred power, and love 
Your tranquil joys; then shall the city stand 
A huge void sepulchre, and rising fair 
Amid the ruins of the palace pile 
The olive grow; there shall the tree of peace 
Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state 
Shall bless the race redeemed of man, when wealth 
And power, and all then- hideous progeny 
Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind 
Live m the equal brotherhood of love. 
Heart-calming hope, and sure! for hitherward 
Tend all the tumults of the troubled world, 
Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness 
Alike: so He hath willed whose will is just. 

J.Ieantime, all hoping and especting all 
In patient faith, to you, domestic gods! 
I come, studious of other lore than song, 
Of my past years the solace and support : 
Yet shall my heart remember the past years 
Vv^ith honest pride, trusting that not in vaiu 
Lives the pure song of liberty and truth. 



^cena — the Fromonhry of Lenrn 1i i 

Tnis IS the spot: — 'Tis here tradition says 
That hopeless love from this high towering rock 
Leaps headlong to oblivion or to death. 
Oh, 'tis a giddy height ! my dizzy head 
Swims at the precipice — 'tis death to fall ! 

Lie still, tlion coward heart I this is no time 

To shake with thy strong throbs the frame conviiLed. 

To die, — to be at rest, — oh, pleasant thought ! 

Perchance to leap and live ; the soul all still, 

And the wild tempest of the passions husht 

In one deep calm ; the heart, no more diseased 

By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, 

Quietly cold; 

Presiding powers, look down ! 
In vain to you I poured my earnest prayers, 
In vain I sung yoxir praises: chiefly thou, 
Venus, ungi'ateful goddess, whrim my lyre 
Hymned with such full devotion ! Lesbian groves, 
Witness how often, at the languid hour 
Of summer twilight, to the melting song 
Ye gave your choral echoes. Grecian maids, 
Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek 
That lay of love, bear witness ! and ye youths, 
Who hang enraptured on the empassioned strain, 
Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart 
Sinks in the deep delirium ! and ye, too, 
Ages unborn, bear witness ye, how hard 
Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain ! 
Ungrateful goddess ! I have hung my lute 
In yonder holy pile: my hand no more 
Shall wake the melodies that failed to move 
The heart of Phaon — yet when i-umonr tells 
How from Leucadia Sappho hurled her down 


A self-devoted victim, — he may melt 
Too lute iu p'.ty, obstiniite to love. 

haunt his miinig-ht di'eams, black Nemcsio', 
^Vliom, self-conceiving in the inmost depths 
Of chaos, blackest night long-labouring boro, 
AVlien the stern destuiies, her elder brood, 

And shapeless death, from that more monstrous birth 
Leapt shuddering ? liaunt his slumbers. Nemesis ! 
Scorch with the tires of Phlegethon liis heart, 
Till helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandoned wretch, 
He, too, shall seek beneath the unfathomcd deep 
To hide liim from thy fury. 

How the sea 
Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile 
And gaily wanton o'er its heaving breast ! 
Phtubus shuies forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn 
His votary's sorrows. God of day, shine on; — 
By men despised, forsaken by the Gods, 

1 supplicate no more. 

How many a day, 
pleasant Lesbos ! in thy secret streams 
Delighted have I plunged, from the hot sun 
Screened by the o'er-arching grove's delightful shade, 
And pillowed on the waters ! Now the waves 
Shall chill me to repose. 

Tremendous height ! 
Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs 
Support me. Hark ! how the rude deep below 
Tioars round the rugged base, as if it called 
Its long-reluctant victim ! I will come. 
One leap, and all is over ! The deep rest 
Of death, or tranquil apathy's dead cabn, 
Welcouie alilie to me. Away, vaui fear.s ! 
Phaou is cold, and why should Sappho live ? 
Phaon is cold, or with some faii-er one — 
Thought v.'orse than death ! 

\^Ske throtvs herself from tlie pred^nca. 



Written for the prize at Camhridge, 1793. 

Hail venerable niglit ! 

first-created hail ! 
Thou who art doom'd in thy dark breast to veL' 

The dying beam of light. 
The eldest and the latest thou, 

Hail venerable night ! 

Around thine ebon brow, 
Glittering plays with lightning rays 

A wreath of flowers of fii-e. 
The varying clouds with many a hue attire 

The many-tinted veil. 

Holy are the blue gi'acos of thy zone ! 

But who is he whose tongue can tell 
The dewy lustres which thine eyes adorn ? 
Lovely to some the blushes of the morn; 

To some the glory of the day. 

When blazing with meridian ray 
The gorgeous sun ascends his highest throne; 
But I with solenm and severe delight 
StiU watch thy constant car, immortal night ! 

"For then to the celestial palaces 
Urania leads, Urania, she 
The goddess who alone 
Stands by the blazing throne, 
Effulgent with the light of deity. 
Whom wisdom, the creatrix, by her side 

Placed on the heights of yonder sky, 
And smiling with ambrosial love, imlock'd 
The depths of nature to her piercing eye. 
Angelic myriads struck their harps around. 
And with triumphant song 
The host of stars, a beauteous throng, 
Around the ever-living mind 


In jubilee their mystic dance begun ; 

\\lien at thy leaping forth, sun ! 

The morning started in affright, 
Astonished at thy birth, her child of light. 

Hail Urania hail ! 
Queen of the muses ! mistress of the song ! 
For thou didst deign to leave the heaven!}^ throng, 

As earthward thou thy steps -wert bending, 
A ray went forth and harbingered thy way; 
All ether laughed with thy descending. 
Thou hadst wreathed thy hah- with roses. 
The flower that in the immortal bower 
Its deathless bloom discloses. 
Before thine awful mien, compell'd to shrink j 
Fled ignorance abashed and all her brood; 
Dragons, and hags of baleful breath, 
Fierce di-earas that wont to di'ink 
The sepulchre's black blood; 
Or on the wings of storms 
Kiding in fuiy forms 
Shrieked to the mariner the shriek of death. 

I boast, goddess, to thy name 
That I have raised the pile of fame I 

Therefore to me be given 
To roam the starry path of heaven. 
To charioteer with -wings on high 
And to rein in tlie tempests of the sky. 

Chariots of happy gods ! fountains of light ! 

Ye angel-temples bright ! 
May I unblamed yoiu: flamy threshold tread ? 

I leave earth's lowly scene; 

I leave the moon serene, 

The lovely queen of night; 

I leave the wide domains 
Beyond where Mars his fiercer light can fling. 

And Jupiter's vast plains, 

(The many-belted king;) 
Even to the solitude where Satui'n reigns. 
Like some stern tyraut to just exile diiven; 


Dim seen the sullen power appears 
In that cold solitude of heaven, 
And slow he drags along 
The mighty circle of long-lingering years. 

Nor shalt thou escape my sight, 
Who at the thi'eshold of the sun-trod domes 
Ai-t trembling, — youngest daughter of the night ? 
And you, ye fiery-tressed strangers, you 

Comets who wander wide. 
Will I along yom* pathless way pursue, 

Whence bending I may view 
The worlds whom elder suns have vivified. 

For hope, with loveliest visions soothes my mind 
That even in man, life's winged power^ 
Wlien comes again the natal hour, 

Shall on heaven-wandermg feet 

In undecaying youth. 

Spring to the blessed seat ; 

Where round the fields of truth 
The fiery essences fcr ever feed; 

And o'er the ambrosial mead, 

The breezes of serenity 
Silent and soothing glide for ever by. 

There priest of nature ! dost thou shine 
Newton ! a king among the kings divine. 
^Vhether with hai-mony's mild force. 
He guides along its course 
The axle of some beauteous star on high; 
Or gazing in the spring 
Ebullient with creative energy, 
Feels his pure breast with rapturous joy possest 
Inebriate in the holy ecstasy ! 

I may not call thee mortal, then, my soul * 
Inunortal longings lift thee to the skies : 
Love of thy native home inflames thee now, 

With pious madness wise. 
Ivnow then thyself! expand thy wings divine! 
Soon mingled with thy fathers thou shalt shine 
A star amid the starry thi'ong, 
A god the gods among. 




Scene, the Palace Court. The Queen spealdng from the BattlemenlB 

Cease — cease your torments ! spare the sufferers'. 
Scotchmen, not theii-s the deed; — the crime was mine, 
Lline is the glory. 

Idld threats ! I stand 
Secure. All access to Ihese battlements 
Is barr'd beyond your sudden strength to force, 
And lo ! the dagger by which Fergus died ! 

Shame on you, Scotchmen, that a woman's hand 
Was left to do this deed ! Shame on you, Tlianes, 
WTio with slave-patience have so long endured 
The wrongs, the insolence of tyi'aijiy ! 
Ye coward race ! — that not a husband's sword 
Smote that adulterous king ! that not a wife 
Eevenged her own pollution; in his blood 
Wash'd her soul pure; and for the sin compell'd, 
Atoned by virtuous mmxler ! Oh, my God ! 
Of what beast-matter hast thou moulded them. 
To bear with, wrongs like these ? There was a time 
When, if the bard had f eigu'd you such a tale. 
Your eyes had throbb'd with anger, and youi* haiids 
In honest instinct would have gi'asped the sword. 
O miserable men who have disgraced 
Your fathers, whom your sons must blush to name ! 

A y, ye can threaten me ! ye can be brave 

In anger to a woman ! one whose virtue 

Upbraids your coward vice; whose name will live 

Honour'd and prais'd in song, when not a hand 

Shall root from yom* forgotten monuments 

The cankering moss. Fools ! fools ! to think that deatL 

Is not a thing familiar to my mind ! 

As if I knew not what must consummate 

My glory ! as if aught that earth can give 

406 LYllICAL i>IECES. 

Could tempt me to endure the load of life ! 

Scotchmen ! ye saw when Fergus to the altar 

Led me, his maiden queen. Ye blest me thcr, 

I heard you biess me, and I thought that KeaveB 

Had heard you also, and that I Avas blest, 

For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God ! 

With what a sacred heai-t-sincerity 

My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow 

That made me his, him mine; bear witness, Thovi! 

Before whose throne I this day must ajapear, 

Stain'd with his blood and mine ! my heart was hisi 

His in the strength of all its first affections. 

In all obedience, in all love, I kept 

Holy ray marriage vow. Behold me. Thanes ! 

Time hath not changed the face on which his eye 

So often dwelt, when with assiduous care 

He sought my love, with seeming truth, for om.-, 

Sincere herself, impossible to doubt. 

Time hath not changed that face; — I speak not now, 

With pride, of beauties that will feed the woi'm 

To-morrow ! but with joyful pride I say 

That if the tiiiest and most perfect love 

Deserved requital, such was ever mine. 

How often reeking from the adulterous bed, 

Have I received him! and with no complaint. 

Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn. 

Long, long did I endure, and long curb down 

The indignant natui'e. 

Tell your countrymen, 
Scotchmen, what I have spoken — say to them, 
\ e saw the queen of Scotland lift the dagger, 
Eed fi-om her husband's heai'tj that in her own 
She plunged it. 

stabs hem if. 

Tell them also, that she felt 
No i.niiltv fear tu deatk 

,■ ',;Ml&i^"'v='^^ ?&V C'^' '•'; I 


THE soldier's wife. 



"Weary, ■way-wanderer languid and sick at Leart, 
Travelling painfully over the rugged road, 
Wild-visaged wanderer ! ah, for thy heavy chance ! 

Sorely thy little one drags by thee bare-footed, 
Cold is the taby that hangs at thy bending back, 
Meagre and livid, and screjuning its wretchedness. 

Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony, 

As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe, 

Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face. 

Thy husband will never return from the war again, 

Cold is thy hopeless heart even as charity — 

Cold are thy fiimislied babes — God help thee, widowed one. 



Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell, 
"Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked. 
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, 
Weary and way-sore. 

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections; 
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom: 
She had no home, the world was all before her, 
She had uo shelter. 

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her ; 
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer. 
" Pity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger 
Here I should perish. 


" Once I had friends, — but they have all foisook me! 
Once I had parent-,— they are now in heaven! 
I liad a home once — I had once a husband— 
Pity me, strangers ! 

''I had a hor";? once — I had once a husband — 
T am a widow poor and broken-hearted!" 
fjoud blew the wind, nnheard was her complaiiiing, 
On drove the chariot. 

Then on the snow she haid her dovvTi to rest her ; 
She heard a horseman, " Pity me !" she groaned out; 
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining, 
On went the horseman. 

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, 
Down sank the wanderer, sleep had seized her senses; 
There did the traveller fuid her in the morning, 
God had released her. 


Lo T, the man who erst the muse did ask 

Her deepest notes to swell the patriot's meedi3, 

And now enforced, a far unfitter task. 

For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds ; 

For yon dull tone that tinkles on the air 
Bids me lay by the lyre, and go to morning prayer. 

Oh, how I hate the sound ! it is the knell 
That still a requiem tolls to comfort's hour ; 

And loth am I, at superstition's bell. 

To quit or Morpheus or tlie muse's bower: 

Letter to lie and doze than gape amain, 
[Teai'ing still mumbled o'er the same eternal sti-ain. 

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers, 
Say, hast thou ever summoned from his rent 

Oiae being wakening to religious cares 1 

Or roused one pious transport in the breaf^tl 

Or rather, do not all reluctant creep 
To linger out the hour in listlessness or sleep? 


I love the bell that calls the poor to pray, 

Chiming from village church its cheerful sound, 

When the sun smiles on labour's holy-day, 
And all the rustic train are gathered round, 

Tach deftly dizened in his Sunday's best, 
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest. 

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day, 
The mantling mists of eventide rise slow, 

As through the forest gloom I wend my way, 
The minster curfew's sullen voice I know. 

And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear, 
As, made by distance soft., it dies upon the ear. 

Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear 

Do I receive the early passing-bell ; 
For sick at heart with many a secret care, 

"When I lie listening to the dead man's knell, 
I think that in the grave all sorrows cease. 
And would fuJl fain recline my head, and be at peace. 

But thou, memorial of monastic gall ! 

What fancy sad or lightsome thou hast given ! 
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recal 

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven ! 
And this clean's gaj^e, and that dean's nasal toiie, 
And Roman rites retained, though Roman faith be flown. 


Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly I 
Leave thy guilty sire to die. 
O'er the heath the stripling fled, 
The wild storm howling round his head. 
Fear mightier through the shades of ni^ht 
Urged his feet, and winged his flight; 
And still he heard his father cry. 
Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly ! 

Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly ! 

Leave thy guilty sire to die. 

On every I'last was heard the moan, 

The anguished sha^iek, the death-fraught gioan ; 


Loathly niglit-hngs join the yell, 
And see — the midnight rites of helJ, 
Forma of magic! spare my life! 
Shield me from the murderer's knife! 
Before me dim in lurid light 
Float the phantoms of the night— 
Behind I hear my father cry, 
Fly, son of Ban quo — Fleance, fly! 

Parent of the sceptred race, 
Boldly tread the circled space: 
Boldly, Fleance, venture near — ■ 
Sire of monarchs — spurn at fear. 

Sisters, with prophetic breath, 
Pour we now the dirge of death! 


Brain! you must work! begin, or we shall lose 
The day while yet we only think upou it. 

The hours run on, and yet you will not chuse 
The subject — come — ode, elegy, or sonnet. 

You must contribute, brain! in this hard time ; 

Taxes are high, food dear, and you must rhyme. 

'Twere well if when I rubb'd my itchless head, 
The fingers with benignant stimulation 

Could through the medullaiy substance spivad 
The motions of poetic inspu-ation ; 

But scratch, or knock, or shake my head about, 

The motions may go in, but nought comes out. 

The natural head, consider good my bram, 
To the head politic bears some allusion ; 

The limbs and body must support your rei^n, 
And all when you do wrong is in confusion. 

But caput mine, in truth I can't support 

A head as lazy as if born at court. 


The verse goes on, aud we shall have, my friend, 
A poem ere the subject we detei'niine. 

But everything should have some useful end. 
That single line itself is worth a sermon ! 

The moral jjoint as obvious is as good, — 

So gentle brain ! I thanli you and conclude. 


At uiiduight by the stream I rov'd 

To forget the form I lov'd. 
Imrige of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
The moon was high, the moonlight gleasi, 

A ud the shadow of a star 
Heav'd upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far, 
The rock half shelterVl from my A'iew, 
By pendant boughs of tressy yew. — ■ 
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
Gleaming through her sable hau\ 
Image of Lewti! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind 

I saw a cloud of palest hue, 

Onward to the moon it pasbd. 
Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
With floating colours not a few. 

Till it reach'd the moon at last ; 
Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
With a rich aud amber light ; 
And so with many a hope I seek. 

And with such joy I hud my Lewti; 
And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, 
If Lewti never will be kind. 

The little cloud — it floats away. 
Away it goes — away so soon ! 


Alas! it has no power to stay: 

Its hues are dim, its hues are grey- 
Away it passes from the moon. 

How mournfully it seems to fly, 
Ever fading more and more, 

To joyless regions of the sky — 
And now 'tis whiter than before, 

As white as my poor cheek will be, 
"^Hien, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 

A. dying man for love of thee. 

Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind — 

And yet thou didst not look imkindl 

I saw a vapour in the sky, 

Thin, and white, and very higli. 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud — 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below, and now above, 
TIave snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud 

Of lady fair — that died for love ; 

For maids, as w-ell as youths, have peritih'd 

From fruitless love too fondly cherisli'd ! 

Na3% treach'rous image! leave my mind — 

For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip the crumbling banks for ever; 

Tiike echoes to a distant thunder, 
They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river swans have heard my tread, 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
Your movements to some heavenly tuno* 

beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 
1 know tlie place wdiere Lewti lies. 
When silent night has clos'd her eyes — 
It is a breezy jasmin bower, 

The nightingale sings o'er her head ; 
Had I tlie enviable power 

To creep, unseen, with noiseless tread, 
Then should I view her bosom white 


Heaving lovely to the sight, 
As these two swans together heave 
On the gently-swelling wave. 
Oh that she saw me in a dream, 

And di-eamt that I had died for caie I 
All pale and wasted I would seem, 

Yet fair withal, as spirits are. 
I'd die, indeed, if I might see 
Her bosom heave, antl heave for me ! 
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mindj 
To-morrow Le\vti may be kind. 



GoosEBERRY-piE is best. 

Full of the theme, O muse begin the song ! 
What though the sunbeams of the west 
Mature within the turtle's breast 

Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue ? 

What though the deer boimd sportively along 
O'er spi-ingy turf, the park's elastic vest i 

Give them their honours due — 
But gooseberry pie is best. 

Behind his oxen slo^v 

The patient ploughman plodrf ; 

And as the sower followed by the clods 
I'^artli's genial womb received the swelling so-jJ. 
The rains descend, the grains they grow ; 

Saw ye the vegetable ocean 

Eoll its green billows to the April gait V 
The ripening gold with multitudinous motion 

Sway o'er the summer vale ? 

It flows through alder banks along 
Beneath the copse that hides the hill ; 

The gentle stream you cannot see, 

You only hear its melody, 

The stream that turns the mill. 


Pass on, a little way pass on, 

And you shall catch its gleam anon; 

And hark ! the loud and agonizing groan 

That makes its anguish known, 

Where tortur'd by the tyrant lord of meal 

The brook is broken on the wheel ! 

Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale ! 
On the white bosom of the sail 

Ye winds cnamour'd, lingering lie ! 
Ye waves of ocean spare the bark ! 

Ye tempests of the sky ! 
From distant realms she comes to bring 

The sugar for my pie. 
For this on Gambia's arid side 

The vulture's feet are scaled with blood, 
And Beelzebub beholds with pride, 

His darling planter brood. 

First in the spring thy leaves were seen, 
Thou beauteous bush, so early green ! 
Soon ceas'd thy blossom's little life of love. 
O safer than the Alcides-conquer'd tree 
That gi-ew the pride of that Hesperian grov 0—" 

No dragon does there need for thee 
With quintessential sting to work alarms. 

And guard thy fruit so fme. 

Thou vegetable porcupine ! 
And didst thou scratch thy tender arms, 

O Jane ! that I should dine ! 

The flour, the sugar, and the fruit, 
Commingled weU, how well they suit, 

And they were well bestow'd. 
O Jane, with truth I praise your pie^ 
And will not you in just reply 

I'raise my Pindaric ode ? 




Eight years since (said Luther) at Dessaw, I did see and touch a changed 
cliilrle, which was twelv years of age : heo had his eies and all his members 
like another childe: hee did nothing but feed, and would eat as mucli 
as two clowns, or threshers, were able to eat. When one touched it, 
then it cried out. AVhen any evil happened in the hous, then it 
laughed and was joiful; but when all went well, then it cried, and was 
very sad. 

In Saxonia, near unto Ualberstad, s>ras a man that also had a killcrop, 
who sucked the mother and five other woman drie: and besides, de- 
voured very much. This man was advised thar hoe should in his 
pilgrimage at Halberstad make a premiss of the killcrop to the "Virgin 
Marie, and should cause him there to bee rocked. This advice the man 
followed, and carried tlie changeling thither in a basket. But going over 
a river, beeiag upon the bridg, another divel that was below in the river 
called, and said, Killcrop, luUcrop ! Tlien the childe in the basket (which 
never before spake one word) answered, ho, ho. The divel in the water 
asked further, whither art thou going? The childe in the bai^ket said, 
I am going towards Hocklestad to our loving mother to be rocked. 

1 he man beeing mucli affrighted thereat, threw the childe with the 
basket, over the bridg into the water. Whereupon the two divels flew 
away together, and cried, ho, ho, ha, tumbling themselves one over 
another, and so vanished. — Luther's Divine Discowrses. 

In justice, however, to Luther, it should be remembered, that thi» su- 
perstition was common to the age in which he lived. 

You squalling imp, lie still ! isn't it enough 
To eat two pounds for a breakfast, but again 
Before the sun's half-risen, I must hear 
This cry? as though your stomach was as empty 
As old Karl's head, that yoader limps along 
Mouthing his crust. I'll haste to Hocklestad ! 
A short mile only. [Enter Father Karl.) 


Benedict, how now ! 
Earnest and ont of breath, why in this haste ? 
What have you in your basket ? 


StaLcI aside J 
No moment this for converse. Ask to-morrow 
And I wUl answer you, but I am now 


About to punish Beelzebub. Take cai'e, 
My business is important. 


What! about 
To punish the arch fiend old Beelzebub ? 
A thing most rare — but can't I lend a hand 
On thb occasion ? 


Father, stand aside ' 
I Late lliis pai'iey ! stand aside, I say ! 


Good Benedict, be not o'ercome by rage, 
But listen to an old man. What is't there 
Within your basket ? 


'Tis the devil's changelin;:,', 
A thumping killcrop ! {uncovers the baskef,] 

Yes, 'tween you and I, {tuhisperinj) 

Our neighbour Bakleric's, changed for his son Will ! 


An idle thought ! I say it is a child. 
A fine one too ! 


A child ! you dreaming grej^-beard ! 
Nothing will you believe like other people. 
Did ever mortal man see child Uke this ! 
Why 'tis a killcrop, certam, manifest; 
Look there ! I'd rather see a dead pig snap 
At th' butcher's knife, than call this thmg a child. 
View how he stares ! I'm no yomig cub d'ye see. 


Why, Benedict ! this h most wonderful 

To my plain mind. I've often heard of kiUcropa 

And laugh'd at the tale most heai'tily; but now 

I'll mark him well, and see if there's any truth 

In these said creatures. {looks at ilie haslet.] 

A finer child ne'er breathed ! 
Tliou art mistaken, Benedict ! thine eyes 
Sfc things confused ! But let me hear thee say 
What are the signs by which thou know'st the difl^'rencf 
"J .vixt crop and child. 



The diff'reuce ! mercy oii iis ! 
Tfiat I should t;ilk to such a heretic — 
Dye know tlie dilFerence 'twixt the moon and stars ? 


Most certainly. 


Then these are thhigs so ne?.: , 
Tliat I might pardon one who hesitates, 
Doubting between them. But the crop and child ! 
They are so opjiosite, that I should look 
Sooner to hear the frog teach harmonj'', 
Than meet a man with hairs so grey as tliine, 
V7ho did not know the difference. 


Benedict ! 
The oldest 'ere he die, something might learn; 
And I shall hear, gladly, the certain marks 
That show the killcrop. 


Father, listen theu — 
The killeroj), mark me, for a true man's child 
At first might be mistaken— has tAVO eyes 
And nose and mouth, but these ai-e semblauceB 
Deceitful, and, as father Luther says, 
There's something imderneath. 


Good Benedict ! 
If killcrops look like children, by what power 
Know you they aie not 1 


This from you old futhor ! 
Why when they are pinch'd they squeak. 


This is not strange. 
All ciiildrcn cry when jjinch'd. 


But then, their maws; 
The veriest company of threshing clown 
Would think they had no appetite, compared 
Witli this and the rest oi 'em — gormandizing beast ! 
Bee how lie yawns for food ! 



But Benedict ! 
When hunger stings you, don't you ope your moutli i 
"What other evidence 1 


Why, devil-like, 
When any evil hapjoens, by his grin 
'Twill always tell ye, and when tidings good 
Come near, the beasts of tAvins delivered, or 
Corn sold at market, or the hai'vest in, 
The raven never croaked more dismally 
Before the sick man's window, than this crop, 
Vfith disajipointment howls. And then, a mai'k 
Iniallible, that shows the killcrop true. 
Is this, old man, he sucks his mother dry! 
'Twas but the other day, in our village, 
A killcrop suck'd his mother and five more 
Dry as a whet-stone. Do j'ou now believe 1 


Good Benedict, all children laugh and cry ! 
I have my doubts. 


Doubts have you 'i well-adny i 
fn t'other world you'll sink ten fathoms deeper 
I i^romise you for this foul heresy. 
But nothing will move you, you wont be moved. 
I'll tell 'ye as true a stor}' as ever man 
Told to another. I had a changeling once 
Laid in my crad'e, but I spied him out; 
Thou'st never seen a creature so foul-mouth'd 
And body'd too. But, knowing Satan's drift, 
I balk'd him : to the lofty church that stands 
Over yon river, t the killcrop took 
To ask advice, how to dispose of him 
Of til' holy pastor. When by the moon on high, 
('Tis true I fear'd him) as I past the bridge, 
Bearing him in my arms, he gave a leap 
And over the rails juiup'd headlong, laughing loud 
With a fellow-fiend, that from the waves beneath 
Bawl'd KUlcrop Killcrop ! 


Are you sure he laugh'cl I 
Might it not be a cry l 



Why! that it might, 
I wont be certain, but thnt he jump\l over 
And splash'd and dash'd into the water beueatli 
Making fierce gestures and loud bellowings ; 
1 could as soon, a witch's innocence, 
Believe, as doiibt it. 


Benedict I now say ! 
Didst thou not throvv him over 1 


Throw him over ! 
W-liy, man, I could as easily have held 
A struggling whale. It needed iron arms 
To hold the monster. Doubt whate'er you Avill, 
He surely laugh'd. And when he reach 'd the water 
Grasping the liend, I never shall forget 
The cries, the yells, the shouts ; it seem'd to me 
That thunder was dove's cooing to tiie noise 
These killcrops made, as splashing, roariug, laughing 
With their ha, ha, ha, bO ominous ! they rush'd 
Down the broad stream. That A'ery night our cow 
Sicken'd and died. Saints aid ns ! whilst these crops 
Poison the air, they'll have enough to do 
To stay the pestilence. 


But Benedict, 
Be not outrageous ! I am old d'ye see. 
Trust me, thou art mistaken, 'tis no killcrop, 
(See how he smiles ! poor infant, give him me. 


Stand off! the devU lent him, and again 
1 will retiu-n him honestly, and rid 
Earth ot one bane. 


Thou dost not mean to kill ! 
Poor infant, spare him ! I have young and old, 
The poor, a houseful, yet I'll not refuse 
To take one more, if thou wilt give him me. 
Let me persuade ! 


Away ! I say, avt-ay ! 
Even if an angel came to beg him of me, 


I should siispect imposture, for I know- 
He could not ask a killcrop. 'Tis a thing 
Heaven hath no need of. Ere an hour be past, 
From yon tall rock I'll iiU"l him to perdition. 


[Repeat it not ! oh spare the infent I spare 
His innocent laughter ! my cold creeping blooc?. 
Doth boil with indignation, at the thought 
Most horrible. Thou must not do the deed ! 


Nol pimish Satan ! I have learnt too well 

From father Luther. Once again, stand off ! 

I'll rocket him. (c.vit.) 


Brother, thou wert strong in youth I 
Brother, thou wert brave in war ! 
Unhappy man was he 
For whom thou hadst sharpened the tomahawk's edge; 
Unhappy man was he 
On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight ; 
And he who from thy hand 
Eeceived the calumet, 
Blest heaven, and slept in peace. 

When the evil spirits seized thee, 
Brother, we were sad at heart: 

AVe bade the Jongler come, 

And bring his magic aid ; 
"We circled thee in mystic dance, 

With songs and shouts and cries, 

To free thee from their power. 
Brother, but in vain we strove, 
The number of thy days was full. 

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat, 
The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs, 
Thy feet ai^e sandal'd, ready for the way. 
Those are the unfatiguable feet 

That traversed the forest track 

Those are the lips that late 

THE Huron's address to the dead. 421 

Thundered tlie 3'ell of war; 
Aud that is the strong right arm 
''"hat never was lifted in vain. 

Tliose lips are silent now, 
The limbs that were active are stiff, 

Loose hangs the strong right arm ! 

And where is that which in thy voice 
The language of friendship sijake? 
That gave the strength of thine arm ? 

That fiird thy limbs with lite ] 
It was not thou, for thou art here, 

Tliou art amongst us still, 
But the life and the feeling are gone. 

The Iroquois will learn 

Tliat thou hast ceas'd from war, 
'Twill be a joy like victory. 
For thou wert the scourge of their raes. 

Brother, we sing thee the song of death, 
In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest, 
The bow shall be placed by thy side, 
And the shafts that are poinxed and feather'd for flight. 
To the country of the dead 
Long and painful is thy way ! 
Ovev rivers wide and deep 
Lies the road that must be past, 
By bridges narrow-waU'd, 
Where scarce the soul can force its \vay. 
While the loose fabric totters under it. 

Safely may our brother pass ! 
Sai'ely may he reach the fields. 
Where the sound of the drum and the siiell 
Shall be heard from the country of souls! 
The spirits of thy sires 
Shall come to welcome thee ; 
The God of the dead in his bower 
Shall receive thee and bid thee join 
The dance of eternal joy. 

Brother, we pay thee the rites of deatli, 
Best in the bower of delight! 



Now go to tlie battle, my boy ! 
Dear child of my son, 

1 here is strength in thine arm, there is hope in thy heart, 
Thou art ripe for the labours of war. 
Tliy sire was a stripling like thee 
Wlien he went to the first of his fields. 

He retnru'd, in the glory of conquest return'd, 
Before him his trojDhies were borne ; 

These scalps that have hung till the sun and the rain 
Have rusted their raven locks. 

Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing ai'rived, 
The day of the warrior's reward, 
Y/hen the banners sun-beaming were spread, 
And all hearts were dancing in joy 
To the sound of the victory drum. 

The heroes were met to receive their reward, 

Bat distinguish'd among the young heroes that day, 

The pride of his nation thy father was seen : 
The swan-feathers hung from his neck,' 
His face like the rainbaw Avas tinged, 
And his eye — ^^Iiow it sparkled in pride I 

The elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow 
The crown that his valour had won, 
And they gave him the old honour'd name. 

They reported the deeds he had done in the war, 
And the youth of the nation were told 
To respect him, and tread in his path. 

My boy ! I have seen, and with hope, 

The courage that rose in thine eye 

When I told thee the tale of his death. 

His war-pole now is grey with moss. 

His tomahawk red witli rust, 

His bow-string whose twang was death 

Now sings as it cuts the wind, 

But his memory is fresh in the land. 

And his name with the names that we love. 

Go now and revenge him, my boy ! 

That his spirit no longer may hover by day 

O'er the hut where his bones ai'e at rest, 
Nor trouble our dreams in the night. 

My boy, I shall watch for the warrior's leturn, 
And my soul will be sad 
Till the steps cf thy coming I see. 


P. 422. 



Rest iu peace, my father, rest ! 
With danger and toil have I borue thy corpse 
From the stranger's field oi death. 

I bless thee, O wife of the sim, 
!For veiling thy beams with a cloud, 
While at tlie pious t^isk 
Thy votary toil'd in fear. 
Thou badest the clouds of night 
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from man ; 
But didst thou not see my toil, 
And put on the dai^kncss to aid, 
O wife of the visible god 1 

Wretched, iny father, thy life! 
Wretched the life of the slave ! 
All day foi' another he toils ; 
Overwearied at night he lies down 
And dreams of the freedom that once he eujoyM 
Thou wort blest in the dr.ys of thy youth, 
My father! for then thou wert free. 
In the fields of the nation thy hand 
Bore its part of the general task; 
And when, with the song and the dance. 
Ye brought the harvest home, 
As all in the labour had shared, 
So justly they shared in the fruits. 

Thou visible lord of the earth. 
Thou god of my fathers, thou god of my heart, 
O giver of light and of life ! 
T^Hien the strangers came to oui" shores, 
Why didst thou not put forth thy power? 
Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd. 
The tires should i-u lightnings have flash'd! — 
Visible god of the earth, 
The strangers mock at thy might ! 

To idols and beams of wood 
They force us to bow the knee J 


Tliey plunge us in caverns and ileus, 
Where never tliy blessed light 
Shines on our poisonous toil ! 
But not in the caverns and dens, 
O sun, are we mindless of thee : 
We pine for the want of thy beams, 
Wii adore thee with anguish and groans. 

jMy faiher, rest in peace! 
Eest with the dust of thy sires ! 
I'hey placed their cross in tliy dying grasp i- 
Theybore thee to their burial place, 

And over thy breathless frame 
Their bloody and merciless priest 

INIumbled his mystery words. 
Oh ! could thy bones be at peace 
In the fields where the sitrangers are laid? — 
Alone, in danger and in pain, 
My father, I bring thee here 
So may our god, in reward, 
Allow me one faithful friend 
To lay me beside thee when I am released ! 
So may he release me soon, 
That my spirit may join thee there. 
Wliere tlie strangers never shall con^e ! 


TwAS the voice of my husband that came on the gale 
The unappeased spirit in anger complains! 

Kest, rest, Ollanahta, be still I 

The day of revenge is at hand. 

Vhe stake is made ready, the captives shall die 
To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear, 

To-morrow thy widow shall wield 

The knife and the fire ; — be at rest ! 

f he vengeance of anguish shall soon have its course,- 
rhe fountains of grief and of fui-y shall How, — 
I will think, Ollanahta ! of thee. 
Will remember the davs of our love. 


Ollanahta, all day by tliy war-pole I sat, 

Wliere idly thy hatchet of liattle is hung; 
I gazed on the bow of thy strength 
As it waved on the stream of the wind. 

The tcalps that we number'd in triumph were thor..', 
Ai\d the musket that never was levell'd in vain, — 

What a leap has it given to my heart 

To see thee suspend it in peace. 

VVlien the black and blood-banner was spread to the gal?, 
Wlien thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was heard, 

I remember thy terrible eyes 

How they ilash'd the dark glance of thy joy. 

1 remember the hope that shone over thy cheek 
xVs thy hand from the pole reach'd its doei's of death; 
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud 
Ere the thunder and lightning are born. 

lie went, and j^e came not to warn him in dreams, 
Kindred spirits of him who is holy and great ! 

And where was thy warning, O bird, 

The timely announcer of H1 1 

Alas! when thy brethren in conquest return'd; 

When I saw the white plumes bending over their heads, 
And the pine-boughs of triumph before, 
Where the scalps of their victory swung. — 

Tlie war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not there J 
I caird thee, — alas, the white deer-skin was brought ; 

And thy grave was prepared in the teut 

AVliich I had made ready for joy I 

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit, — 
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy gravel 

To-morrow the victims shall die, 

And I shall have joy in revengtj. 



'•Kespecting storms, the people of Chili are of opinion that the de- 
parted souls are returning from their abode beyond the sea to assist 
their relations and friends. Accordingly, when it thunders over the 
mountains, they think that the souls of their forefathers are taken in 
an engagement witli those of the Spaniards. The roaring of the winds 
they take to be the noise of horsemen attacking one another, the howling 
of the tempest for the beating of drums, and the claps of thunder fur 
the discharge of muskets and cannons. When the wind drives tlie 
clouds towards the possessions of the Spaniards, they rejoice that the 
souls of their forefathers have repulsed those of their enemies, and call 
out aloud to them to give them no quarter. When the contrary 
liappens, they are troubled and dtjected, and encourage the yieliling 
souls to rally their forces, and aummon up U-e last remains of their 
Btreugth." — Meiner. 

The storm cloud grows deeper above, 
Araucans ! the tempest is ripe in the sky, 
Our forefathers come from their islands of bliss, 

They come to the war of the winds. 

The souls of the strangers are there, 
In their garments of darkness they ride through the heaven, 
The cloud that so lurid rolls over the hill, 

Is red with their weapons of fire. 

Hark ! hark ! in the howl of the wind 
The shout of the battle — the clang of their drums — 
The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight 

Is the blast, that disbranches the wood. 

Eehold from the clouds of their power 
The lightning — the lightning is lanced at our su'es, 
A nd the thunder that shakes the broad pavement of heaven. 

And the darkness that sliadows tlie day ! 

Ye souls of our fathers be brave ! 
Ye shrunk not before the invaders on eai-th, 
Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire. 

Brave spirits ye tremble not now I 

cniMALPocA. 427 

We gaze on your warfare in hope, 
We send up our shouts to encourage your arms ! 
Lift the hmce of your vengeance, O lathere ! with force, 

For the wrongs of your country strike home ! 

I'emember the land was your own 
When the sons of destruction came over the seas, 
That tlie okl fell asleep in the fulness of days, 

And their children wept over their graves. 

Till the strangers came into tlio land 
AVith tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire. 
Then the strength of the people in youth was cut off 

And the father wept over his son. 

It thickens — the tumult of fight, 
Loud and louder the blast of the battle is heard — - 
llemember the wrongs that your country endures 

Eemev^^^er the fields of yoiu- fame. 

Joy! joy! for the strangers recoil — 
They give way — they retreat to the laud of their life ! 
Pursue them ! pursue them! remember your wrongs! 

Let youi- lances be drunk with their wounds. 

The souls of your wives shall rejoice 
As they welcome you back to your islands of bliss, 
Ani.1 the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing biow 

Waft thither the song of your praise. 



Scene, the Temple of Mexilli. 

Subjects ! friends ! children ! I may call you children 

For I have ever borne a iather's love 

Towards you; it is thirteen years since fu'st 

You saw me in the robes of royalty, 

Since here the multitudes of Mexico 

Hail'd me their king, I thank you friends that now 

In equal numbers and with equal love 

You come to grace my death. 


For tliirtecn yenr:^ 
What I have been, ye know : that with all care, 
That with all justice and all gentleness 
Seeking your weal I govern'd. Is there one 
Whom I have injured'? one whose just redress 
I have denied, or baffled by delay? 
Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue 
Speak shame of me hereafter. O my peojile, 
Not by my deeds have I drawn down ujion me 
The wrath of heaven. 

TIio wrath is hea-\^ on mei 
Heavy ! a bi;rthen more than I can bear ! 
T have endured contempt, insult and wrongs 
From that Acolhuan tyi-ant ! sliould I seek 
Eevenge? alas, my people, we are few, 
Feeble our growing state! it hath not yet 
Eooted itself to })car the hurricane ; 
It is the lion-cub that tempts not yet 
The tiger's full-aged fury. Mexicans, 
He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe ; — 
When was the day tliat ever I look'd back 
In l)attle 1 Mexicans, the wife I loved, 
To faith and friendship ti-usted, in despite 
Of me, of heaven, he seized, and spurned her back 
Polluted ! — coward villain I and he lurks 
Behind his armies and his multitudes. 
And mocks my idle wrath ! — it is not fit 
It is not possible that I should live ! 
live ! and deserve to be the finger-mark 
Of slave-contempt ! his blood I cannot reacli^ 
But in my own all stains shall be effaced. 
It shall blot out the mai'ks of infamy, 
And when the warriors of the days to come 
Shall speak of Chimalpoca, they shall say 
He died the brave man's death ! 

Not of the god 
Unworthy, do I seek his altar thus, 
A voluntary victim. And perchance 
The sacrifice of life may profit you, 
My people, though all living efforts fail'd 
By foi'tune, not by fault. 

Cease your lament ! 
And if your ill-doomed king deserved your love, 


Say of liim to yoiu" children, " he \yas one 

Who bravely bore misfortune ; who when lifft 

Became dishonour, shook his body off, 

And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead." 

Yes ! not in Miclanteuctli's* dark abode 

With cowards shall your king receive his doom; 

Not in the icy caverns of the north 

Suffer through endless ages ! he shall join 

The spirits of the brave, with them at morn 

Shall issue from the eastern gate of heaven, 

And follow through his fields of light the sun, 

With them shall raise the song and weave the dancej 

Sjiort in the stream of splendour, compa,ny 

Down to the western palace of his rest 

The prince of glory, and with equal eye 

Endure his centered radiance. Not of you 

Forgetful, O my people, even then, 

But often in the amber cloud of noon 

Diffused, will I o'ersj^read your summer fields, 

And on the freshened maize and brightening mea<Id 

S!iower jileuty. 

Spirits of my valiant sires, 
I come ! IMexitli, never at thy shrine 
Fiow'd braver blood ! never a nobler heart 
Steam 'd up its life to thee ! priests of the god, 
Perform your office ! 


For aye be h}Tice ye vayne delyghts 
So short as seeme the guiltie uyghtes 

Yatte men f orweare inne folie ! 
This lov/lie world hath nothyug swote 
Iladde mortals oulie wytte to know yt 

But halie melancholie. 

Then welcome amies yatte folded lye 
From he-avie breste the long-drawu sye, 

* The Mexican god of hell. 


The purses of the browe, 
The loke yrooted to the growne, 
The tong ychaynde withouten sowne, 

Unguided steps and slowe. 

The moonlight walk iu pathless grove 
Where aye pale passion yearnes to rove, 

The well hede-kele and still. 
The midnyghte howre when all the fowles 
Are housde and hiishte save battes and owJes 

Yatte screche theyre bodjTiges shrille. 

The fadyiig clink of dystaunt bell 
Whose knell the tale of dethe doth tell, 

The grone of partyng ghoste, 
These sownes aleyne the sowle doth feede 
Yatte of a higher world hath hede, 

Forlettying erthlie loste. 


HiTHKR frolics and delights ! 
Day is dying, and by nights 

I my years would number ; 
What have earth and time to give 
But the whan that pleasxTres live 

Toil and trouble slumber ? 

Welcome arms asunder thro'wn, 
Lifted chin, and locks adown 

The forehead sleek and free, 
Crimson cheek and glancing eye, 
Lips where smiles aye lurking lie, 

The tiiDtoe tread of glee. 

The taper'd hall that music haunts. 
Where sparkles wine, where beaut}^ panta, 

And feast and dance abound ; 
The midnight hour when sages sour 
Are hush'd abed or hous'd in bower 

But wit rmis gie-gling round. 



The clink of an unheeded clock, 
That vainly gives a threefold knock. 

The toast that glows the breast, 
The jolly-chorused ronndela}^ 
The curtain that keeps out the day, 

Let anwls have the rest. 





For thirty years secluded from mankind, 

Here Marten linger'd. Often have these walls 

Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread 

He paced around his prison: not to liim 

Did nature's fair varieties exist: 

He never saw the sun's delightful beams, 

Save when through yon high bars it pour'd a »avl 

And broken splendour. Dost thou ask his erimir ] 

He had rebell'd against the king, and sat 

In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind 

Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth, 

And peace and liberty. Wild dreams ! but sueL 

.;Vs Plato loved; such as, with holy zeal 

Our IMllton worshipp'd. Bles=;ed hopes ! awhile 

From man withheld, even to the latter days, 

When Christ shall come and all things be iulfil1''cL 



Go, Yalentine, and tell that lovely maid 

Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, 
How here I linger in this sullen shade, 

This dreary gloom of dull monastic night. 
Say, tliat from every j".y of life remote 

At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, 
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note, 

Who pours like me her solitary song. 
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigli ; 

Say, that of all her chai-ms I love to speak, 
In foncy feel the magic of her eye, 

In fancy view the smile illume her clieek, 
Court the lone hour when silence stills the gro7&; 
And heave the sigh of memory and of love. 


Think, Valentine, as speeding on thy way 

Homeward, thou hastest light of heart alo:;g, 
If heavily creep on one little day 

The medley crew of travellers among, 
Tiiink on thme absent friend : reflect that here 

On life's sad journey comfortless he I'oves, 
llemote from every scene his heart holds dear 

From him he values, and from her he loves. 
And when, disgusted with the vain and duU 

Whom chance companions of thy way may dooin, 
Thy mind, of each domestic comfoit full, 

Turns to itself and meditates on home, 
Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast 
Who loathes the lingering road« yet has no home of rest! 



Not to thee, Bedford ! mournful is the tale 
Of days departed. Time in liis career 
Arraigns not thee tliat the neglected year 
Ilath past unheeded onward. To the vale 
or years thou journeyest; may the future road 
Be pleasant as the past ! and on my friend 
Friendship and love, best blessings ! still attend. 
Till full of days he reach the cahn abode 
Where nature slumbers. Lovely is the age 
Of virtue: with such reverence we behold 
The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown oltl 
That whilom mocked the rushing tempest's rage, 
Now like the monument of strength decayed, 
With rarelj'-sprinkled leaves, casting a trembling shads 


W'jTAT though no sculptured monivnent proclaim 

I'hy fete — yet, Albert, hi my breast I bear 
Inshrined the sad remembrance : yet thy name 

Will fill my throbbing bosom. Wlien despair, 
The child of murdered hope, fed on thy heart, 

Loved, honoured friend, I saw thee sink forlorn. 
Pierced to the soul by cold neglect's keen dart, 

And penury's hard His, and pitying scorn, 
And the dark spectre of departed joy, 

Inhuman memory. Often on thy grave 
IjOvc I the solitary hour to employ 
Thinking on other days; and heave the sigh 

Kesponsive, when I mark the high grass wave 
Sad sounding as the cold breeze rustles by. 

Hard by the road, where on that little mound 
The liigh grass rustles to the passing breeze. 
The child of misery rests her head in peace. 

Pause there in sadness: that unhallowed ground 

Inshrines what once was Isabel. Sleep on. 
Sleep on, poor outcast ! lovely was thy cheek. 
And thy mild ej'e was eloquent to speak 

The soul of pity. Pale and woc-begone. 



Soon did thy fair cheek Hide, and thine eye weep 
The teiir of anguish foi' the babe unborn, 
The helpless heir of poverty and scorn. 
She di-ank the draught that chilled her soul to sleep, 
I pause, and wipe the big drop from mine eye, 
Whilst the proud Lcvite scowls and passes by. 



As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream 
And watch thy cm'rent, memorj^'s hand portrays 
The faint-formed scenes of the departed daj's. 

Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam 

Dimly descried, yet lovely. I have worn, 
Upon thy banks, the livelong lioui* away. 
When sportive chUdhood wantoned through the day, 

Joj'cd at the opening splendouj* of the morn. 

Or, as the twilight darkened, heaved the sigh. 
Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek. 
At the fond thought, slow stealing on, would speak 

The silent eloquence of the full eye. 

Dim are the long past days, yet still they jilcase [breeze 
As thy soft .sounds haK heard, bcrne on the inconstaut 



Mild arch of promise ! .on the evening sky 

Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray, 
Each ui the other melting. Much mine eye 

Delights to linger on thee; for the day. 
Changeful and m.ahy-weathered, seemed to smile, 
Flashing brief splendour through its clouds awliUe^ 

Which deepened dark anon, and fell in rain; 
Bat pleasant it is now to pause, and view 
Th.y A'arious tints of frail and watery hue. 

And think the storm shall not return again. 
Such is the smile that piety bestows 

On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peacCj 
Departing gently from a world of woes, 

Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease. 

SOxOSETJ. 435 


With many a weary step, at length I gain 
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze pl.iy^*, 
Gratefully round my brow, as hence the gaze 

P.eturns to dwell upon the journej-ed plain. 
'Twas a long way and tedious ! To the eye 

Though fail" the extended vale, and fair to view 

The falling leaves of many a faded hue. 
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. 

Even so it fared with life ! in discontent, 

llestless through fortune's mingled scenes I went . . . . 
Yet wept to think they would return no more ! 

But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam; 

For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home. 
And pleasant is the vray that lies before. 


Fair is the rising morn, when o'er the sky 
The orient sun expands his roseate ray 

And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye 
Fades the meek radiance of departing da}'; 

But fairer is the smile cf one wc love. 

Than all the scenes m nature's ample sway. 

And sweeter than the music of the grove. 

The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight- 
Edith ! is mine; escaping to thj^ sight 

From the hard dm'ance ol' the empty throng. 
Too swiftly then towards the silent night. 

Ye liours of happiness ! ye speed along; 

Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart, 
Pour out the ieelings of my burthened heart. 


IIow dai'lcly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns 
The gathered tempest ! from that lurid cloud 
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud, 

Though distant; Avhile upon the misty downs 

Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelving rain. 
I never saw so terrible a storm ! 

Perhaps some way-Avorn traveller in vain 

AVraps his torn raiment round his shivering form, 



Cold even as hope uithin him ! I the while 
Pause rae in sadness, though the sun^ beams emilc 

Cheerily round me. Ah, that thus my lot 
Mit^ht he with peace and solitude assigned, 

Where 1 might, from some little quiet cot, 
Sidi for the crimes aiif] miseries of nmnlcind! 


Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide 

To some far-distant land adventurous bound, 

The sailors' busy cries, from side to side, 
Pealing among the eciioing rocks resound; 

A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band, 
Joyful they enter on their ocean way, 

Witii shouts exulting leave their native land, 
And know no care beyond the present day. 

T?ut is tlicrc no poor mourner left behind. 
Who sorrows for a cliiid or husband there? 

Who at the howling of tlie midnight wind 
AVill wake and tremble in her boding prayer? 

Po may her voice be heard, and heaven be kind- 
Go gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair ! 


IJr.WAHE a speedy friend, the Arabian said, 
And wisely was it he advised distrust. 
Tl^e flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. 
Look at yon oak lifts its statelj'^ head 
And dallies v;ith the autumnal storm, whose rage 

Tempests the ocean waves; slowly it rose, 
Sll)^\■ly its strength increased, through many an ag 

And timidly did its light leaves unclose, 
^s doubtful of the spring, their palest green. 
They to the summer cautiously expand. 
And by the warrr.or svm and season bland 
IMatured, theii" foliage in tlic grove is seen. 
When the bare forest by the wintrj'^ blast 
Is swept, still lingering on tlie boughs the last. 



A WRINKLED CTabbccl man they picture tliLV, 

Old winter, witli a ragged beard as gray 
As the long muss upon tlie apple tree; 

Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way. 
Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose,- 
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. 
They should have drawn thee by the high-hcapt hearlh, 

Old winter ! seated in thy great arm'd chair, 
Watching the children at their Christmas mirlli, 

Or circled by thmn as their lips declare 
Some merry jest or tale of murder dire. 

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, 
Pausing at times to move the languid fire. 

Or taste the old October brown and briii-lit. 



O God ! luivo mercy in this dreadful hour 
On the poor mariner ! — In comfort here. 
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear 

The blast that rages with resistless power. 
What were it now to toss upon the waves, — 

The maddened waves, — and know no succour near; 

The howling of the storm alone to hear, 
And the wdld sea that to the tempest raves, 

To gaze amid the horroi's of the night. 

And only see the billows' gleaming light; 
And in the dread of death to think of her 

Who as she listens sleepless to the gale, 

puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale! 
God ! have mercy on the mariner. 


The three utilities of poetry — the praise of virtue and n;ooc1ness, the 
memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate the aflfectious. — Welsh 



Art tTiou a patriot, traveller ? on this field 

Did Fa'kland fall, the blameless and the brave, 

Beneath a tyrant's banners: dost thou boast 

Of lo^'al ardour ? Hampden perished here. 

The rebel Hampden, at whose glorious name 

The heart of every honest Englishman 

Jeats higli with conscious pride. Loth uncorrupt, 

Friends to their common countiy both, they fought, 

They died in adverse armies. Traveller ! 

If witli thy neighbour thou shouldst not accord. 

In charity remember these good men. 

And quell each angry and injurious thought. 



Enter this cavern, stranger! the ascent 
Is long and steep and toilsome; here awhile 
Thou mayst repose thee from the noontide heat, 
O'ercanopied by this arclied I'ock that strllces 
A grateful coolness: clasping its rough arms 
Round the rude portal, the old ivy hangs 
Its dark green brandies down. No common spot 
Receives thee, for the power who prompts the song 



lioves this secluded haunt. The tide below- 
Scarce sends the sound of waters to thine car; 
And yon high-hanging forest to the wind 
Varies its many hues. Gaze, stranger, here ! 
And let thy softened lieart intensely feel 
How good, how lovely, nature ! When from henca 
Departing to the city's crowded streets. 
Thy sickening eye at every step revolts 
From scenes of vice and wretchedness; reflect 
That man creates the evil he endures. 



This mound in some remote and dateless day 
Reared o'er a chieftain of the age* of hills, 
May here detain thee, traveller ! from thy road 
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house 
Some waiTior sleeps below; his gallant deeds 
Haply at many a solemn festival 
The bard has hai-ped, but perished is the ^ng 
Of praise, as o'er these bleali and ban-en downa 
The wind that passes and i? heard no more. 
Go, traveller, and remember when the pomp 
Of earthly glory fades, that one good deed 
Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind, 
Xiives in the eternal register of heaven. 



This is the place where William's kiugly power 

Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, 

Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless, 

The habitants of all the fertUe tract 

Far as these wilds extend. He levelled down 

Then- little cottages, ho bade their fields 

* The northei-n nations distingiiiahed the two periods when the bodies 
of ths dead were consumed by fire, and whea they were burled beneath 
the tumuli so common in this country, by the age of fire and the age of 


Lie barren, so that o'er the fcrest waste 
He might more roj'ally pursue his sports ! 
If that thine heart be human, passenger ! 
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips 
Will mutter cm'ses on him. Think thou, tlien, 
Yv hat cities Hame, what hosts unsopulchred 
Pollute the passing wind, when raging power 
Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of man; 
And as thy thoughts anticipate that day 
When God shall judge aright, in charity 
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind. 



A LITTLE while, traveller! linger liere. 

And let thy leisure eye behold and feel 

The beauties of the place ; yon heathy hill 

That rises sudden from the vale so green, 

The vale Tar stretching as the view can reach 

Under its long dark ridge, the river here 

Tlmt, like; a serpent, through the grassy mead 

Winds on, now hidden, glittering now in light. 

Nor fraught with merchant wealth, nor lamed in song, 

This river rolls; an unobtrusive tide. 

Its gentle charms ma}' soothe and satisfy' 

Thy feelings. Look ! how bright its pebbled bed 

Gleams through the rui'.led current; and that bank 

'With flag-leaves bordered, as with two-edged swords! 

See where the water wrinkles roand the stem 

Of yonder water lily, whose broad leaf 

Lies on the wave, — and art thou not refresh'd 

By the fresh odour of the running stream ? 

Soon, traveller ! does the river reach the end 

Of all its windings ; from the near ascent 

Thou wilt behold the ocean, where it pours 

Its waters and is lost. Eemember thou, 

Traveller ! that even so thy restless yeai^s 

Flow to the ocean of eternity. 

iNscraPTioN3. 441 



Stranger ! awhilo upon this mossy bark 

rJocliiie thee. If the sun rides high, the breeze. 

That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet, 

\Vill play around thy brow, and the cool sound 

Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how cleai 

It sparkles o'er the shallows; and behold 

^Vhere o'er its surface wheels with restless speed 

Yon glossy insect; on the sand below 

Ilowthe swift shadow flits. The stream is pure 

in solitude, and many a healthful herb 

l>ends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave: 

But passing on amid the haunts of man, 

It fmds pollution there, and rolls from thence 

A tainted tide. Seek'st thou for happiness ? 

Go, stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot 

or innocence, and thou shalt find her there. 



Stranger! the man of nature lies not here: 
Inshrined far distant by his* rival's side 
] lis relics rest, there by the giddy throng 
■\Vith blind idolatry alike revered ! 
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet 
IC.xplored the scenes of Ermonville. Ilousscau 
Loved tliese calm haunts of solitude and peace; 
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake, 
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove. 
When o'er their bending boughs the passing wind 
Swept a grey shade. Here, if tliy breast be fidl. 
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush, 
His spirit shall behold thee, to thine home 
From hence retm-ning purified of heart, 

* ToUaire 




Heee Latimer and Ridley in the flames 

Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd 

Uprightly through the world, proud thoughts of joy 

Will fill thy breast in contemplating here 

Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved 

From the right path, if thou hast sold thy soul 

And served, a hii'eling, with apostate zeal. 

The cause thy heart disowns, oh ! cherish well 

The honourable shame that sure this place 

Will wake withm thee, timely penitent. 

And let the future expiate the past. 



}Ieee was it, stranger, that the patron saint 

Of Cambria past his age of penitence, 

A solitary man; and here he made 

His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink 

Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy youth 

Has read with eager wonder how the knight 

Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower 

Slept the long sleep; and if that in thy veins 

Flows the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood 

Has flow'd with quicker Impulse at the tale 

Of David's deeds, when through the press of war 

His gallant comrades followed his gi-een crest 

To conquer. Stranger I Hatterill's mountain heights 

And this fan* vale of Ewias, and the stream 

Of llodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise 

More grateful, thus associate with the name 

Of David and the deeds of other days. 



John rests below. A man more infamous 
Has never held the sceptre of these realms. 
And bruised beneath the iron rod of power. 
The oppressed men of England. Englishmiui ! 
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was. 


Coward and slave, j'et he it was who signed 

That charter which should make thee, morn and night, 

Be thankful for thy birth-place: Eng-lishman ! 

That holy charter, which, shouldst thou permit 

Force to destro}', or fraud to undermine. 

Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul, 

For they must hear the burthen of thy crimei 



Stkangee ! whose steps have reach'd this solitude. 

Know that this lonely spot was dear to one 

Devoted v.dth no unrequited zeal 

To nature. Here, delighted he has heard 

The rustling of these woods, that nov/ perchance 

Melodious to the gale of summer move. 

And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock 

With grey and yellow lichens overgrown. 

Often reclined, watching the silent How 

Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals 

Along its verdant course, till all around 

Had fill'd his senses mth tranquillity. 

And ever sooth'd in spirit he retm-n'd 

A happier, better man. Stranger, perchance 

Therefore the stream more lovely to tliine eye 

Will glide along, and to the summer gale 

The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou then 

The weeds and mosses from this letter'd stone. 



Thet perish'd here whom Jefferies doom'd to death 

In mockery of all justice, when he came 

The bloody judge, the minion of his king, 

Commission'd to destroy. They perish'd here. 

The victims of that jud^e and of that king, 

In mockery of all justice perish'd here. 

Unheard ! but not unpitied, nor of God 

Unseen, the innocent suffered! not m vain 

The widow and the orphan, not in vain 

The innocent blood cried vengeance ! for they roee, 


At !en,!,4h tlic}' rose, tlie people in their power. 

Resistless. Then in vain that bloody judge 

Disg-uised, sought flight: not always is the Lord 

Slow to revenge ! a miscrahle man 

lie lell beneath tlie people's rage, and still 

The children curse his nuiinory. From his throne 

The sullen bigot who comniissioii'd him, 

The tyrant James was driven. He lived to drag 

Long years ot frustrate hope, he lived to load 

More blood )\pon his soul. Let tell the Boyne, 

Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame, 

And that inmrortal day when on thy shores, 

La, Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead! 



Aee days of old familiar to thy mind, 

reader ? hast thou let the midnight hour 

Pass un])orceived, whilst thy young fancy lived 

With high-born beauties and enamour'd chiefs, 

Hluired all their hopes, and with a breathless joy 

"Wliose eager expectation almost pain'd, 

Follow'd their dangerous fortunes ? if such lore 

lias ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread 

As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts 

The groves of Penshurst. Sidney here was boruj 

Sidney', than wliom no gentler, braver man 

His own delightful genius ever feign'd 

Illustrating the vales of Arcardj'' 

^\'^ith courteous courage and with loyal loves. 

Ujion his natal day the iicorn here 

A\''as planted. It grew up a stately oalc, 

And in the beauty of its strength it stood 

And flom-ish'd, when his ijerishable part 

Had moulder'd dust to dust. That stately oak 

Itself halh moulder'd now, but Sidney's fiime 

Lives and shall live, immortalized in song. 




Heee, stranger, rest thee! from the neighbouring towers 

01' Oxford, haply thou hast forced tliy bark 

Up this strong stream, whose brolcen waters here 

Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense: 

I* est thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs 

Aitbrd a grateful shade, and to the eye 

Fair is its fruit: stranger! the seemly fruit 

Is worthless, all is hoUowness within. 

For on the grave of Eosamvmd it grows ! 

Young, lovely, and beloved, she fell seduced, 

And here retired to wear her wretched age 

In earnest prayer and bitter penitence, 

Despised and self-despising: think of her. 

Young man, and learn to reverence womankind ! 


Here, traveller! pause awhile. This ancieni: oak 

Will parasol thee if the sun ride high, 

Or should the sudden shower be falling fast, 

Here mayst thou rest umbrcUa'd. All around 

Is good and lovely: hard by yonder wall 

The kennel stands; the horse-flesh haPiging near 

Perchance with scent unsavoury may olfeml 

Thy delicate nostrils, but remember thou 

How sweet a perfume to the hound it yields, 

And sure its useful odours will regale 

I\rorc gratefully thy philosophic nose. 

Than what the unprolitablo violet 

Wastes on the war.dcring wind. Nor wilt thou want 

Such music as benevolence will love, 

For from these fruitful boughs the acorns fall 

Abundant, and the swine that grub around, 

Sliaking with restless pleasure their brief tails 

That like the tendrils of the vine curl up. 

Will grunt their gxeedy joy. Dost thou not love 

The sounds that speak enjoyment? oh if not, 

If thou Avouldst rathe'- w^th inhuman ?.ai 


Hark to the warblinga cf some wretclied bird. 
Bereft of freedom, sure thine heart is dead 
To each good leeling, and thy spirit void 
Of all that softens or ennobles man. 



liEADEE, if thou canst boast the noble name 

Of Englishman, it is enough to know 

Thou standest in Old Sarura. Bat if chance 

'Twas thy misfortune in some other land. 

Inheritor of slaverj', to be born, 

Head and be envious ! dost thou see yon hut, 

Its old mud mossy walls with many a patch 

Spotted ? know, foreigner ! so wisel}' well 

In England it is ordered, that the laws 

Which bind the people, from themselves siiould spring; 

Know that the dweller in that little hut, 

That wretched hovel, to the senate sends 

Two delegates. Think, foreigner, where such 

An individual's rights, how happy all ! 



Spaniaed ! if thou art one who bows the knee 
Ik-fore a despot's footstool; liic thee hence! 
This ground is holy: here Padilla died, 
Mart\T of freedom. But if thou dost love 
Her cause, stand then as at an ultar here, 
And thank the Almighty that thine lionest heart, 
FuU of a brother's feelings for mankind, 
r^ebels against oppression. Not unheard 
Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer 
Ascend; for loftiest impulses will rise 
To elevate and strengthen thee, and prompt 
To virtuous action. Relics silver-slu'ined. 
And chanted mass, would wake witliin tlie sou! 
Thouq:hts valueless and cold compared with these. 




1> E L I A AT PLAY. 

She held a cup and ball of ivory white, 

Less white the ivory than her snowy hand ! 

Enrapt I watch'd hsr from my secret stand, 
As now, intent, in innocent delight, 

Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, 
Now tost it, following still with eagle sight, 

Now on the pointed end infix'd its fall. 
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd, 

Methought the ball she play'd with was my hoai-t J 
(Alas ! that sport like that should be her pride !) 
And the keen point which steadfest still she eyed 

Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart; 
Shall I not then the cruel fair condenui 
Who on tliat dart impal3s my bosom's gem ? 



Eash painter ! canst thou give the orb of day 

In all his noontide glory? or portray 

The diamond, that athwart the taper'd hall 

Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light ? 

Even if thine art could boast such magic might. 
Yet if it strove to paint my angel's eye, 
]Ierc it perforce must fail. Cease ! lest I call 


Heaven's vengeance on thy sin: must thou bo told 

The crime it is to paint divinity ? 
Rash painter ! should the world her charms behold, 

Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be, 
They to their old idolatry would fall, 

And bend before her form the pagan knee. 

Fairer than Venus, daughter of the sea. 



SoiiE have denied a soul ! they never loved. 
Far from my Delia now by fate removed. 

At home, abroad, I view her everywhere; 
Her only in the Hood of noon I see. 

My goddess-maid, my omniprasent fair. 
For love annihilates the world to me! 
And when the weary Sol around his bed 

Closes the sable curtains of the night. 

Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight 
She shines confcst. When every sound is dcail, 
The spirit of her voice comes then to roll 

The surge of music o'er my wavy brain. 

Far, far i'rom her my body drags its chain. 
But sure witli Delia I exist a soul ! 



IN Delia's parlour. 

I would I were that reverend gentleman. 
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, 

Who hangs in Delia's parlour ! For wher.e'er 
From book or needlework her looks arise. 
On him converge the sunbeams of her eyes. 

And he unblamed may gaze upon my fair. 
And oft my fair his fixvour'd form surveys. 

happy picture ! still on her to gaze ! 
I envy him ! and jealous I'ear alarms. 

Lest the strong glance of those divhiest chariLf! 
Warm him to life, as in the ancient days. 
When marble melted m P^'gmalion's arms. 

1 would I were that reverend gentleman 
With gold-laced hat and goldei) -headed cane! 





*Tis mine ! what accents can luy joy declare r 
Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! 

Blest he the hand so hasty of my fair, 

That left the tempting corner hanging out! 

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, 

After long travel to some distant shrine, 
When to the relic of his saint he kneels, 

For Delia's pocket-handkerchief is mine. 

When fii'st with filching fingers I dreAV near, 
Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein. 

And when the finish'd deed removed my fear. 
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain. 

Wliat though the eighth commandment rose to mind, 
It only served a moment's qualm to move, 

For thefts like this it could not be design 'd, 

The eightli commandment was not made for love ! 

Here when she took the macaroons from me. 

She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweets 

Dear napkin ! yes, she wiped her lips in tViee ! 
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. 

And when she took that pinch of ]^,I "^chabaugh 

That made my love so delicately sneeze. 
Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw. 

And thou art doubly dear for things like these. 

No washerwonv-su's filthy hand shall e'er, 

Sweet pockct.-k^vudltere'-iief ! thy worth ])rofa.nej 

For thou hiL-it tovtched tlie riibics of my fair, 
Aiid I will kiia t^hee o'er and o'er again. 




Ye sylphs who banquet on my Delia's blush, 
Who on her locks of lloating gold repose. 

Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush, 
And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose. 

Hover around her lips on rainbow wing, 

Load from her honeyed breath j'our viewless feet. 

Bear thence a richer fragrance for the spring. 
And make the lily and the violet sweet. 

Ye gnomes, whose toil through many a dateless year 

Its nurture to the infant gem supplies. 
From central caverns bring youi" diamonds here. 

To ripen in the sun of Delia's eyes. 

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, 
Spirits of fire ! to see my love advance, 

Fly, salamanders, on asbestos wings. 
To wanton in my Delia's fiery glance. 

She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells, 
Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl ! 

Nymphs! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells 
Enclose them, embryos of the orient pearl. 

She sings ! the nightingale with envy hears, 
The cherubim bends from his starry throne. 

And motionless are stopt the attentive spheres. 
To hear more heavenly music than theu* own. 

Cease, Delia, cease ! for all the angel throng. 
Listening to thee, let sleep their golden wires ! 

Cease, Delia ! cease that too surpassing song, 

Lest, stung to envy, tliey ehould break their lyrec-. 

Cease, ere my senses are to m3.oinoss ds'ivf u 
By the strong joy !, Delia, lest iry smju' 

Enwrapt, already think itself in heaven, 
And burst my feeble body's frail control. 




The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains 
The straightening curls of gold so beamy bright 

Not spotless merely I'rom the touch remains, 
E-at ipsues forth more pure, more milky white. 

The rose-pomatum that the friseur spreaib 
Sometimes Avith honour'd fingers for my farir, 

^0 added perfume on her tresses sheds, 

^ut borrows sweetness fi'om her sweeter hair. 

Happy the friseur w^ho in Delia's hair 

With licensed lingers uncontroU'd may rove. 

And happy in his death the dancing bear 
Who died to make pomatum for my lovo. 

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour 'd lays 

Llight curl those lovely locks with conscious prlde^ 

Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise 
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside. 

Cupid has strung from you, tresses fine, 
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; 

From you, sweet locks ! he wove the subtile line 
Wherewith the urchin angled for my heart. 

Fine are my Delia's tressos as the threads 

That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, procecil, 

Fine as the gleamy gossamer, that spreads 
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead. 

Yet with these tresseri Cupid's power elate 
My captive heart has handcuffed in a chain, 

Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, 
That bears Britannia's thunders o'er the main. 

The sylphs that round her radiant locks repau', 
In floAving lustre bathe their brightening wings 

And elfin minstrels with assiduous care 
The ringlets rob for faery fiddle-stringa. 




On ! be the day accurst that gave me bu'th ! 

Ye seas, to swallow me in kindiiess rise ! 
Fall on me, mountains ! and thou, merciful earth. 

Open and hide me u'om my Delia's eyes I 

Let universal chaos now retm-n, 

Now let the central fii'es their prison hurst. 

And earth and heaven, and air and ocean, burn — • 
For Delia frowns — she fi'owns, and I am curst! 

Oh ! I could dare the fury of the fight, 

Wliere hostile millions sought my single life; 

Would storm volcano batteries with delight. 
And grapple with grim death in glorious strife. 

Oh ! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, 

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies, 

Wliat is his wrath to that other I love? 
"What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes p 

Go, fatal lock ! I cast thee to the wind; 

Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils go — 
Would I could tear thy memory from my miud, 

Accursed lock — thou cause of all my woe 1 

Seize the curst curls, ye furies, as the)' fly ! 

Daemons of darkness, guard the infernal roll, 
Til at thence your cruel vengeance when I die. 

May knit the knots of torture for my souL 

Last night — Oh hear me Heaven, and grant my prayer! 

The book of fate before thy suppliant laj*. 
And let me from its ample records tear 

Only the single page of yesterday ! 

Or hi me meet old Time upon his flight, 
And I will stop him on his restless way; 

Omnipotent in love's resistless might, 
I'll force him back the road of yesterday. 


Last night, as o'er the page of love's despiiir, 

j\ly Delia bent deliciously to gi'ieve; 
I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair, 

And di'cw the fatal scissars from my sleeve. 

And would that at that instant o'er my thread 

The shears of Atropos had open'd then; 
And when I reft the loch from Delia's head, 

HaJ. cut me sudden fi-om the sons of men '. 

She heard the scissars that fair lock divide, 

And whilst my heart with transport panted big, 

She cast a fury i'rown en me, and ci'ied, 

" You stupid pupp^-— you have spoil'd my v.'ig !" 

Juncral Soiijj. 


In its summer pride arrnyed 
Low our Tree of Hope is laid, 
Low it lies; in evil hour, 
Visiting the bridal bower. 
Death hath levell'd root and Howeiv 
^Vindsor, in thy sacred shade, 
(Tlius the end of pomp and power !) 
Have the rites of death been paid : 
Windsor, in thj' sacred shade 
Is the Flower of Brunswick laid / 

Ye whose relics rest around, 
Tenants of the funeral ground! 
Know ye. Spirits, who is como. 
l?y immitigable doom 
Summoned to the untimely tomb ? 
Late with youth and splendour crown'dj 
Late in beauty's vernal bloom. 
Late with love and joyaimce blest; 
Kever more lamented guest 
Was in Windsor laid to rest. 

Henrj^ thou of saintlj' worth, 
Thou, to whom thy Windsor gavo 

4a4 FUNEiiAL soaa. 

Nativity, ar.d name, and grave; 
Thou art in this hallowed earth 
Ci'adlcd for the immortal biilh. 
}Ieavily upon his head 
Ancestral crimes were visited. 
He, in spuit like a child, 
Meek of heart and undeiiled, 
Patiently his crown resign'd, 
And fix'd on heaven his heavenly mian> 
Blessing, while he kiss'd tlie rod. 
His Eedeemer and his God. 
IS'ow may he in realms of bliss 
Greet a soul as pure as his. 

Passive as that humble spirit, 
Lies his bold dethroner too; 
A dreadful debt did he inherit 
To his injured lineage due: 
111 starred Prince, whose martial merit 
His own England long might rue ! 
Mournful was that Edward's fame. 
Won in fields contested well, 
While he sought his rightfid claim: 
Witness Aire's unhappy water, 
Where the ruthless Cliiford fell; 
And when Whari'e ran red with slaughter, 
On the day of Towcestcr's Held; 
Gathering, in its guilty flood. 
The carnage and the ill-spilt blood, 
That forty thousand lives could yield. 
Cress}'' was to this but sport, 
Poictiers but a pageant vam, 
And the victory of Spain 
Seem'd a strife for pastime meant, 
And the work of Agincourt 
Only like a tournament: 
Half the blood which there was sper.t. 
Had sufliced again to gain 
Anjou and ill-yieldod Maine: 
Normandy and Aquitaine, 
And our Lady's ancient towers, 
Maugre all the Valois' powers. 
Had a second time been ours. 
The gentle daughter of thy line, 
Edward, lays her dust with thine. 


Thou, ElizaLotli, art here: 
Tliou to whom all griefs were known ; 
Who vvert placed upon the hier 
In happier hour than on the throne. 
Fatal Daughter, fatal ]\Iother, 
Eaised to that ill-omen 'd station^ 
Father, uncle, sons, and brother, 
Mourn'd in blood her elevation; 
'Woodville, in the realms of bliss, 
To thine offspring thou niayst say. 
Early death is happiness; 
And favour'd in their lot are they 
Who are not left to learn below, 
That length of life is lenglh of woe. 
Lightly let this ground be prest; 
A broken heai't is here at rest. 

But thou, Seymour, with a greetinjjj, 
Such as sisters use at meettug; 
Joy, and Sj-nipathy, and Love, 
Wilt hail her in the seats above. 
Lilce in loveliness were ye. 
By a like lamented doom. 
Hurried to an early tomb; 
Wlule together spiiits blest. 
Here yom: earthly relics rest. 
Fellow angels shall ye be 
in the angelic company. 

Henry, too, hath here hi? part} 
At the gentle Seymour's side, 
With his best beloved bride, 
Cold and quiet, here are laid 
The aslies of that fiery heart. 
Not with his tyrannic spirit. 
Shall our Charlotte's soul inheritj 
No, by Fisher's hoary LenJ, 
By More, the learned and the good, 
By Katharme's wrongs and Boleyu's blood, 
By the life so basely shed 
Of the pride of Norfolk's line. 
By the axe so often red. 
By the fire with martjTS fed. 
Hateful Hemy, not with thee. 
May her happy spirit be ! 


And here lies one whose tragic namo 
A reverential thouglit may claim; 
The murdered monarch, whom the gia7G 
Revealing its long secret, gave 
Again to sight, that we may spy 
This comely face, and waking eye; 
There, thrice fifty years it lay. 
Exempt from iiatiiral decay. 
Unclosed and bright, as if to say, 
A plague, of bloodier, baser birth 
Than that beneath whose rage he bko. 
Was loose upon our guilty eai'tli ; 
Such awful wai'niny Irom the dead 
Was given by that portentous eye; 
Then it closed eternally. 

Ye, whose relics rest around, 
Tenants of this funeral ground; 
Even in j'our immortal spheres, 
Wliat fresli yeaniing will ye feel. 
When this earthly guest appears ! 
Us slie leaves in grief and tears; 
But to you will she reveal 
Tidings of old England's weal; 
Of a righteous war pursued, 
Long, through evil and througli guoi. 
With unshaken fortitude; 
Of peace, in battle here achieved; 
Of her fiercest foe subdued, 
And Europe from the yoke relieved, 
Upon that Brabantine plain: 
Such the proud, the virtuous storj', 
Such the great, the endless glory 
Of her father's splendid reign. 
He, who wore the sable mail. 
Might, at this heroic tale, 
Wish himself on earth again. 

One who reverently, for thee, 
liaised the strain of bridal verse, 
Flower of Brunswick ! mournfully 
liiiys a garland on thy herse. 


Note 1, page 1. 

" Lewes Duke of Orleance murtliered in Paris, by Jhon Duke o* 
Burgoyne, was o\vner of the Castle Coney, on the frontiers of Fraunce 
toward Ai-thoys, whereof he made Constable the Lord of Ca\vny, a man 
not so vrise as his wife was faire, and yet she was not so falre, but she 
was as well beloved of the Duke of Orleance, as of her husband. Be- 
twene the duke and her husband (I cannot tell who was father) she 
conceived a clsikl, and brought furthe a prety boye called Jlion, whiche 
child beyng of the age of one yere the duke deseased, and not long after 
the mother and the Lord of Cawny ended their lives. The next of kynne 
to the Lord Cawny chalenged the inheritaunce, which was worth foure 
thoiisande crounes a yere, alledgyng that the boye was a bastard : and 
the kynred of the mother's side, for to save her honesty, it plainly 
denied. In conclusion, this matter was hi contencion before the presi- 
dentes of the Parliament of Paris, and there hang in controversie till 
the child came to the age of eight years old. At whiche tyme it was 
demanded of hym openly whose sonne he was ; his frendes of his mother's 
iide advertised hym to require a day, to be advised of so great an answer, 
whiche he asked, and to hym it was granted. In the mean season, his 
said frendes persuaded him to claime his inheritance as sonne to the 
Lorde of Cawny, whiche was an honorable livyng, and an auncient patri- 
mony, ifflrming that if he said contrary, he not only slaundered his 
mother, shamed hymself, and stainec'' his bloud, but also should have no 
livyng, nor anything to take to. The scholemaster thinkyng that his 
disciple had wel learned his lesson, and would reherse it according to his 
instruccion, brought, hym before the judges at the dale assigned, and 
when the question was repeted to hym again, he boldly answered ' my 
harte geveth me, and my touge telleth me that I am the sonne of the 
uoble Duke of Orleaunce, more glad to be his bastarde with a meane 
livyng, than the lawful sonne of that coward cuckolde Cawny, with his 
four thousand crowues.' The judges much merveiled at his bolde an- 
swere, and his mother's cosyns detested hym for shamyng of his mother, 
and his father's supposed kinne rejoysed in gaining the patrimony and 
possessions. Charles Duke of Orleaunce heryng of his judgment, tooS^ 


hym into his family, and gave hym greate offices and fees, whiche he well 
deserved, for (during his captivitie) he defended liis landes, expulsed the 
Englishmen and in conclusion procured his deliverance." — Hall, Chron. 

Perhaps Shakspeare recollected tliis anecdote of Dunois when he drew 
tlie character of the Bastard Falconbridge. 

Note 2, pace 2. 

This agrees with the account of her age given by Holinshed, who calls 
her " a youug wench of an eighteene years old, of favour was she counted 
likesoPie, of person stronglie made and manlie, of courage great, hardie, 
and stout withall ; an understander of counsels though she were not at 
them, greet semblance of chastitie both in body and behaviour, the name 
of Jesus in hir mouth about all her business, humble, obedient, and fasting 
divers daiesin the weeke." — Holinshed, 600. 

De Serres speaks thus of her, " A young maiden named Joan of Arc, 
borne in a village upon the Marches of Barre, called Domremy, neere to 
Vaucouleurs, of the age of eighteene or twenty years, issued from bare 
parents, her father was named James of Arc, and her mother Isabel, 
poore countrie folkes, who had brought her up to keep then" cattel. She 
said with great boldnesse that she had a revelation how to succour the 
king, how he might bu able to chase the from Orleaunce, and 
after that to cause the king to be crowned at Rheims, and to put him 
fully and wholly in possession of his realme. 

" After she had delivered this to her father and mother, and their 
neighbours, she presumed to go to the Lord of Baudricourt, Provost of 
Vaucouleurs ; she boldly delivered unto him, after an extraordinary 
manner, all these great mysteries, as much wished for of all men as not 
hoped for : especially commingfrom the mouth of a poore country maide. 
whom they might with more reason beleeve to be possessed of some 
melancholy humour than divinely inspired ; being the instrument of so 
many excellent remedies, in so desperat a season, after the vaine striving of 
so great and famous personages. At the first he mocked her and reproved 
her, but having heard her with more patience, and judging by her tem- 
perate discourse and modest countenance that she spoke not idely, in the 
end he resolves to present her to the king for his discharge. So she ar- 
rives at Chinon the sixt day of May, attired like a man. 

" She had a modest countenance, sweet, civill, and resolute ; her dis- 
course was temperate, reasonable, and retired, her actions cold, shewing 
great chastity. Having spoken to the king or noblemen with whom sliv 
was to negociate, she presently retired to her lodging with an old woman 
that guided her, without vanity, affectation, babling, or courtly liglit- 
nesse. These are the manners which the original attributes to her." 

Note 3, page 11. 

I translate the following anecdote of the Black Prince from Froissart : 
— The Prince of Wales was about a month, and not longer, before the city 
of Limoges, and he did not assault it, but always continued mining. 
When the miners of the Prince had finished their work they said to 
him,"Sir, we will throw down a great part of the wall into the moat when- 
67er it shall please you, so that you may enter into the city at your ease, 
witliout danger." These words greatly pleased the prince who said to 


them, " I cluise that your work should be manifested to-morrow at the 
hour of daybreak." Then the miners set fire to tlieir mines the next 
morning as tlie prince liad commanded, and overthrew a great pane of 
the wall, which filled the moat where it had fallen. The English saw 
all this very willingly, and they were there all armed and ready to enter 
into the to^vn ; those who were on foot could enter at their ease, and 
they entered and ran to the gate and beat it to the earth and all the 
barriers also ; for there was no defence, and all this was done so sud- 
denly that the people of the town were not upon their guard. And then 
you might have seen the Prince, the Duke of Lancaster, the Count of 
Canterbury, the Count of Pembroke, Messire Guischart Dangle and all 
the other chiefs and their people who entered in, and ruffians on foot 
who were prepared to do mischief, and to run througli the town, and to 
kill men and women and children, and so they had been commanded to 
do. There was a very pitiful sight, for men and women and children 
cast themselves on their knees before the prince and cried "mercy!" but 
he was so enflamed with so great rage that he heard them not, neithei' 
man nor woman was heard, but they were all put to the sword wher- 
ever they were found, and these people had not been guilty. I know 
not liow they could have no pity upon poor people, who had never been 
powerful enough to do any treason. There was no heart so hard in the 
city of Lymoges which had the remembrance of God, that did not lament 
the great mischief that was there ; for more than three thousand men 
and women and children had their throats cut that day, God has their 
souls, for indeed they were martyred. In entering the town a party of 
the English went to the palace of the bishop and found him tliere and 
took him and led him before the prince, who looked at him with a mur- 
derous look if'Aonnausement), and the best word what he could say to him 
was that his head should be cut off, and then he made him be taken from 
his presence. — /. 235. 

The crime which the people of Limoges had committed was that of 
surrendering when they had been besieged by the Duke of Berry and in 
consequence turning French. And this crime was thus punished at a 
period when no versatility of conduct was thought dishonourable. The 
phrases tourner Anglois — tourner Francois — retourner Anglois, occur 
repeatedly in Froissart. I should add that of all the heroes of this 
period the Black Prince was the most generous and the most humane. 

Note 4, page 11. 

Ilolinshcd says, speaking of the siege of Roaune, "If I should rehearse 
how deerelie dogs, rats, mise, and cats were sold within the towne, and 
how greedilie they were by the poore people eaten and devoured, and 
how the people dailie died for fault of food, and young infants laie suck- 
ing in the streets on their mothers' l)reasts, being dead starved for hunger, 
the reader might lament their extreme miseries. — p. 5G6. 

Note 5, page 13. 

In the Journal of Paris in the reigns of Charles VI. and VII., it is as- 
serted that the Maid of Orleans, in answer to an interrogatory of the 
Doctors, whether she had ever assisted at the assemblies held at the 
Fountain of the Fairies near Domprein, round which the evil spirits 


dance, confessed that she had often repaired to a beautiful fountain in 
the country of Lorraine, which she named the good Fountam of the 
Fairies of our Lord. 

Note 6, page 13. 
Being asked /hether she had ever seen any fairies, she answered no ; 
but tliat one of her godmothers pretended to have seen some at the 
Fairy tree, near the village of DompTc—Iiapm. 

KOTE 7, PAGE 17. 
According to Holinshed the English army consisted of only 15,000 
men, haraa ed with a tedious march of a month, in very bad weather, 
through a enemy's country, and foi the most part sick of a flux. He 
states the number of the French at 60,000, of whom 10,000 were slain 
and 1500 ot the higher order taken prisoners. Some historians make 
the d ^proportion in numbers still greater. Goodwin says, that among 
the slain tliere were one archbishop, three dukes, six earls, ninety barons, 
fifteen hundred knights, and seven thousand esquires or gentlemen. 

Note 8, page 17. 

This was the usual method of marshalling the bowmen. At Crecy, 
" the archers stood in manner of an herse, about two hundred in front 
and but forty in depth, which is undoubtedly the best way of embatell- 
ing archers, especially when the enemy is very numerous, as at this 
time : for by the breadth of the front the extension of the enemy's front 
is matched; and by reason of the thinness in flank, the arrows do more 
certain execution, being more likely to reach home." — Barnes. 

The victory at Poictiers is chiefly attributed to the herse of archers. 
After mentioning the conduct and courage of the English leaders in that 
battle, Barnes says " but all this courage had been thrown away to no 
purpose, had it not been seconded by the extraordinary gallantry of the 
English archers, who behaved themselves that day witli wonderful con- 
stancy, alacrity, and resolution. So that by their means in a manner 
all the French battails received their first foil, being by the barbed arrows 
80 galled and terrified, that they were easily opened to the men oi arms." 

" Without all question, the guns which are used now-a-days, are 
neither so terrible in battle, nor do such execution, nor work such con- 
fusion as arrows can do: for bullets being not seen only hurt where they 
hit, but arrows enrage the horse, and break the array, and terrify all 
that behold them in the bodies of their neighbours. Not to say that 
every archer can shoot tlirice to a gunner's once, and that whole 
squadrons of bows may let fly at one time, when only one or two fil£% 
of musqueteers can discharge at once. Also, that whereas guns 
are useless when your pikes join, because they only do execution 
point blank, the arrows which will kill at random, may do good service 
even behind your men ol arms. And it is notorious, that at the famous 
battle of Lepanto, the Turkish bows did more mischief than th.e Christian 
artillery. Besides it is not the least observable, that whereas the weakest 
may use guns as well as the strongest, in those days your lusty and tall 
yeomen were chosen for the bow, whose liose being fastened with one 
point, and their jackets long and easy to shoot in, they had their limb^ 
at full liberty, so tliat they might easily draw bows of groat strength an^ 
&hoot arrows of a yard long beside the head." — .Joshua Barnes. 


Note 9, page 17. 

A company of fugitives, headed by Kobert de Boiirnonville, who had 
retired by times out of the battle, knowing the English camp was but 
weakly guarded, pillaged it during the engagement; in consequence of 
this alarm, Henry ordered the i^risoners to be slain except the most 

Note 10, page 17. 

Henry of Monmouth deserves every commendation for his calm and 
active courage in the fight of Azincour ; but after the engagement we 
no longer discover the rival of the Edwards. The Black Prince maybe 
suspected of ostentation when he waited upon liis captive John ; but the 
uncharitable susjaicion will cease when we reflect that he must have 
treated him either as a prisoner or as a guest, and that he conformed to 
the custom of the age in waiting upon a superior. But of the conduct 
of Henry to those prisoners who had escaped the massacre at Azincour, 
only one opinion can be formed. The night after the battle " when the 
king sate at his refection in the aforesaid village, he was served at his 
boord of those great lords and princes that were taken in the field." 
— Edmoncl Huwes. 

Note 11, page 18. 

Perhaps one consequence of the victory at Azincour is not generally 
known. Immediately on his return Henry sent his legates to the council 
of Constance: " at this councell, by the assent of all nations there present, 
it was authorised and ordained, that England should obtaine the name 
of a nation, and should be said one of the five nations that owe their 
devotion to tlie Church of Kome, which thing untill that time men of 
other nations, for envy, had delayed and letted." — Edmond Howes. 

Note 12, page 18. 

Henry judged, that by fomenting the tro.ibles of France, he should 
procure more certain and lasting advantages, than by means of his arms. 
The truth is, by pushing the French vigorously, he ran the risk of uniting 
them all against him ; in which case, his advantages, probably, would 
have been inconsiderable, but by granting them some respite, he gave 
them opportunity to destroy one another ; therefore, contrary to every 
one's expectation, he laid aside his military affairs for near eighteen 
months, and betook himself entirely to negotiation, which afforded him 
the prospect of less doubtful advantages. — Rapin. 

Note 13, page 19. 

" Yet although the armie was strong without, there lacked not within 
both bardie capteins and nianfull soldiers, and as for people, they had 
more than inough : for as it is ^vritten by some that had good cause to 
know the truth, and no occasion to erre from the same, there were in the 
citie at the time of the siege 210,000 persons. Dailie were issues made 
out of the citie at diverse gates, sometime to the losse of the one partie 
and sometimes of the other, as chances of warre in such adventures 
happen." — Holinshpd, 566. 


Note 14, page 19. 
" The Frenchmen indeed preferring fame before worldlie riches, and 
despising pleasure (the enemy towarlilie pro^yesse) sware ech to other 
never to render or deliver the citie, while they might either hold sword 
in hand or speare in rest." — BoUnsfied, 5C6. 

Note 15, page 19. 

" The king of England, advertised of their hautie courages, determined 
to conquer them by famine which would not be tamed by weapon. 
Wherefore he stopped all the passages, both by water and land, that 
no vittels could be conveied to the citie. He cast trenches round about 
the walls, and set them full of stakes, and defended them with archers, 
80 that there was left neither waie for them within to issue out, nor for 
anie that were abroad to enter \vithout his license. The king's coosine 
germane and alie (the king of Portugale) sent a great navie of well- 
appointed ships unto the mouth of the river of Seine, to stop that no 
French vessel should enter the river and passe up the same, to the aid 
of them within Eouen. 

" Thus was the faire citie of Rouen compassed about with enemies, 
both by water and land, having neither comfort nor aid of king, dol- 
phin, or duke." — Hotinshed. 

Note 16, page 20. 

" With the English sixteen hundred Irish Kernes were enrolled from 
the Prior of Ivilmaiuham ; able men, but almost naked; their arms 
were targets, darts, and swords, their horses little and bare no saddle, 
yet nevertheless nimble, on which upon eveiy advantage they plaied. 
with the French, in spoiling the country, rifeling the houses, and carry- 
ing away children with their baggage upon their cowes backs." 

Note 17, page 20. 

" Some writing of this yeelding up of Harflue, doo in like sort make 
mention of the distresse whereto the people, then expelled out of their 
habitations were driven: insomuch as parents with their children, yong 
maids and old folke went out of the tcwne gates withheavie harts (God 
wot), as put to their present shifts to seek them a new abode." — 
Uotinshed, 550. 

This act of despotic barbarity was perpetrated by Henry that he 
mioht people the town with English inhabitants. There is a way of 
telling truth so as to convey falsehood. After the capture of Harfleur 
Edmoud Howes says, " all the soldiers and inhabitants, both of the 
towne and towers, uere suffered to goe freely, unharmed uhither they 
tt-ould," 318. Henry's conduct was the same at Caen : he " commanded 
all women and children to bee avoyded out of the towne, and 30 the 
towne was inhabited of new possessors ' — Hou-es. 

Note IS, page 20. 
Before Henry took possession of Harfleur he went barefootetl to the 
church to give God thanks. — De Sevres. 

Note 19, page 20. 

Herry, not satisfied with the reduction of Caen, put several of the 
inhabitants to death, who had signalized their valour in the defence oi 
their liberty. — H. Clarendon. 


Note 20, Page 21. 

" A great number of poore sillie creatures were put out of the gatet, 
which were by the Englishmen that kept the trenches, beaten and 
driven back againe to the same gates, which they found closed and shut 
against them, and so they laie betweene the wals of the citie and the 
trenches of the enemies, still crieing for help and releefe, for lack whereof 
great numbers of them dailie died." 

Note 21, page 22. 

Roanne was betrayed by its Burgundian GovernDi Bouthellier. During 
.lus siege fifty thousand men perished through fatigue, want, and the 
use of unwholesome provisions. 

Note 22, page 25. 

A dreadful slaughter of the Armagaacs had taken place when Lisle 
Adam entered Paris at midnight, May 18, 1418. This, however, was 
only a prelude to a much greater commotion in the same city some days 
after. Upon news of what had passed, the exiles being returned to 
Paris from all quarters, the massacre was renewed June the 12th. The 
constable Armagnac was taken out of prison, mm'dered, and shamefully 
dragged through the streets. The chancellor, several bishops, and other 
persons, to the number of two thousand, underwent the same barbarous 
treatment. Women and children died smothered in dungeons. Many 
of the nobles were forced to leap from high towers upon the points of 
spears. The massacre being ended, the queen and the Duke of Bur- 
gundy entered Paris in triumph. — Mezeray. — Rapin. 

Note 23, page 26. 

" Here in this first race you shall see our kings but once a year, the first 
day of Jlay, in their chariots deckt with flowres and greene, and drawn 
by four oxen. Whoso hath occasion to treat mth them let him seeke 
them in their chambers, amidst theu* delights. Let him talke of any 
matters of state, he shall be sent to the Maire." — De Serves. 

Fuller calls this race " a chain of idle kings well linked together, who 
gave themselves over to pleasure privately, never coming abroad, but 
onely on May-day they shewed themselves to the people, riding in a 
chariot, adorned with flowers, and drawn with oxen, slow cattel, but good 
enough for so lazy luggage." — Holy IVarre. 

Note 24, page 23. 

Long hair was peculiar to the kings in the first ages of the French 
monarchy. When Fredegonda had murthered Clovis and thrown him 
into the river, the fishermen who fovmd his body, knew it by the long 
'lair. — Mezeray. 

Note 25, page 4C. 

"In sooth the estate of France was then most miserable. There 
appeared nothing but a horrible face, confusion, poverty, desolation, 
solitarinesse, and feare. The lean and bare labourers in the country did 
terrifie even theeves themselves, who had nothing left them to spoile but 
the carkasses of these poore miserable creatures, wandering up and down 
like ghosti-s drawne out of their graves. The least farmw and hs-njlets 


were fortified by these robbers, English, Bourguegnons, and French, 
every one striving to do his worst : All men of war were well agreed to 
epoile the countryman and merchant. Even the catteU, accustomed to the 
larume bell, the signe of the enemy's approach, would run home of themselves 
without any guide by this accustomed misery. This is the perfect descrip- 
tion of those times, talcen out of the lamentations of oui ancestors, set 
down in the original, says De Serres. But amidst this liorribk calamity, 
God did comfort both the king and realme, for about the end of tlie 
yeere, he gave Charles a goodly somie by Queen Mary his wife." 

Note 26, page 51. 

The forest of Orleans coatains even now fourteen thousand acres of 
various kinds of wood, 

Note 27, page 53. 

" To succeed in the siege of Orleans, the English first secured the 
neighbouring places, which might otherwise have annoyed the besiegers. 
The months of August and September were spent in tliis work. During 
that space they took Mel>im, Baugenci, Gergeau, Clery, Sully, Jenville, 
and some other small towns, and at last appeared befort Orleans on the 
12th of October." — liapin. 

Note 28, page 55. 

" At the creation of a knight of Rhodes a sword with a cross lor the 
hilt was delivered to him in token that his valour must defend religion. 
No bastard could be a knight hospitaller, from wliose order that of 
Rhodes was formed, except a bastard to a prince, there being honour in 
that dishonour, as there is light in tlie very spots of the moon." — Fullei-'s 
History of the Holy Warre. 

Note 29, page .5-5. 

" In the late warres in France between King Henry the Fifth of 
England and Charles the Seventh of France, the French armie being in 
distresse, one Captain La Hh-e, a Frencliman, was sent to declare unto 
the said French king, the estate and affaires of the warre, and how for 
want of victuals, money, and other necessaries, the French had lost 
divers townes and battailes to the English. The French king being 
disposed to use his captaine familiarly, showed him sucli thinges as 
himself was delighted in, as his buildings, his banquets, faire ladies, &c., 
and then asked the captaine how hee liked them: 'Trust me, sir,' 
quoth the captaine, speaking his mind freely, ' I did never know any 
prince more delighted himself with his losses, than you doe with yours.' " 
— Howes. 

Note 30, page 55. 

" They pulled down all the most considerable buildings in the suburbs, 
and among tlie rest twelve churches and several monasteries ; tliat the 
Englisli miglit not make use of them in carrying on the siege." — Rapin. 

Note 31, page 60. 

" The bulwark of the Tournelles being much shaken by the besiegers' 
Otiivrcrs, and the besieged thinking it proper to set it on fire, the English 


extinguislied the flames, and lodged themselves in tliat post. At the 
f-ame time they became masters of tlie tower on the bridge, from whence 
llie whole city could be viewed." — Ilapin. 

XOTE 32, PAGE 64. 

Fuller calls this " resolving rather to lose their lives by wholesale on 
the point of the sword, than to retail them out by famine." 

Note 3-3, page 65. 

" It was the belief of the SIcxicans, that at the conclusion of one of 
their centuries the sun and earth would be destroyed. On the last night 
of every century they extinguished all their fires covered the faces of 
the women and children, and expected the end of the world. The 
kindling of the sacred fire on the mountain of Huixachtla was believed 
an omen of their safety." 

Note 34, page 74. 

The circumstance of the maid's entering Orleans at midnight in a 
storm of thunder and lightning is historically true. 

" The Englishmen perceiving that tliei witliin could not long continue 
for faute of vitaile and pouder, kepte not their watche so diligently as thei 
were accustomed, nor scoured not the countrey environed as thei before 
liad ordained. Whiche negligence the citezens shut in perceiving', sent 
worde tliereof to the French capitaines, which with Pucelle in the dedde 
tyme of the nighte, and in a greate rayne and thundre, with all their 
vitaile and artilery entered into the citie." — Hall. 

Note 35, page 96. 

The tortoise was a machine composed of very strong and solid timber 
work The height of it to its highest beam, wliich sustained the roof, 
was twelve feet. The base was square, and each of its fronts twenty- 
five feet. It was covered with a kind of quilted mattress made of raw 
Iiides, and prepared with different drugs to prevent its being set on fire 
by combustibles. This lieavy machine was supported upon four wheels, 
or perhaps upon eiglit. It was called tortoise from its serving as a 
very strong covering and defence against the enormous weights thrown 
down on it; those under it being safe in the same manner as a tortoise 
under his shell. It was used both to fill up the fosse, and for sapping. 
It may not be improper to add, that it is believed, so enormous a weight 
could not be moved from place to place on wheels, and that it was 
pushed forward on rollers. Under these wheels or rollers, the way was 
laid with strong planks to facilitate its motion, and prevent its sinking 
into the ground, from whence it would have been very difficult to have 
removed it. The ancients have observed that the roof had a thicker 
covering, of hides, hurdles, sea-weed, &c., than the sides, as it was 
exposed to mucli greater shocks from the weights thrown upon it by 
the besieged. It had a door in front, which was drawn up by a chain 
as far as was necessary, and covered the soldiers at work in filling up 
the fosse with fascines. — Rollin. 

Tliis is the tortoise of the ancients, but that of the middle ages dif- 
fered from it in nothins; material. 


Note 36, page 9G. 

" Tlie besiegers having carried the bayle, brought up their machines 
and established tlieraselves in the counterscarp), began under cover of 
their cats, sows, or tortoises, to drain the ditch, if a wet one, and also 
to fill it up with hurdles and fascines, and level it for the passage of 
their moveable towers. Whilst this was doini, the archers, attended 
by young men carrying shields (pavoises), attempted with their arrows 
to drive the besieged from the towers and ramparts, being themselves 
covered by these portable mantelets. The garrison on their part essayed 
by the discharge of machines, cross and long bows, to keep the enemy 
at a distance." — Grose. 

Note 37, page 98. 

"The following extract from the History of Edward III. by Joshua 
Barnes will convey a full idea of these moving towers. " Now the 
liarl of Darby had layn before Reule more than nine weeks, in which 
time he had made two vast belfroys or bastilles of massy timber, with 
three stages or floors ; each of the belfroys running on four huge wheels, 
bound about witli thick hoops of iron ; and the sides and other parts 
tliat any ways respected the town were covered with raw hides, thick 
laid, to defend the engines from fire and sliot. In every one of these 
stages were placed an hundred archers, and between the two bastilles 
tliere were two hundred men with pickaxes and mattocks. From 
lliese six stages six hundred archers shot so fiercely all togetlicr, that 
no man could appear at liis defence without a sufficient punishment : so 
that the belfreys being brought upon wheels by the strength of men 
over a part of the ditch, whicli was purposely made plain and level by 
the faggots and earth and stones cast upon them, the two hundred 
pioneers plyed their work so well under the protection of these engines, 
that they made a considerable breach through the walls of the town 
The archers and cross bowmen from the upper stories in the moveable 
towers essayed to drive away the garrison from the parapets, and on a 
proper opportunity to let full a bridge, by that means to enter the town 
In the bottom story was often a large ram." — Grose. 

Note 38, page 99. 

Against the moveable tower there were many modes of defence 
The chief was to break up the ground over which it was to pass, or by 
undermining it to overthrown. Attempts were likewise made to set it 
on fire, to prevent which it was covered with raw hides, or coated over 
with alum. — Grose. 

Note 39, page 107. 

The Oriflamme was a standard erected to denote that no quarter 
would be given. It is said to have been of red silk, adorned and beaten 
with very broad and fair lilies of gold, and bordered about with gold 
and vermilion. The Oriflamme was originally used only in wars against 
the infidels, for it was a sacred banner, and believed to have been sent 
from heaven. 

Note 40, page 107. 

At this woman's voice amidst the sound of war, the combat gicws 
iTery hot. Our men, greatly encouraged by the virgin, run headlong to 
the bastion, and force a point thereof; then fire and stones raia so 


violently, as the English being amazed, forsake their defences : some 
are slain upon the place, some throw themselves down headlong, and 
tiy to the tower upon the bridge. In the end this brave Glacidas aban- 
dons this quarter, and retires into the base com-t upon the bridge, and 
after him a great number of his soldiers. The bridge, greatly shaken 
with artillery, tried by fire, and overcharged with the weight of this 
multitude, sinks into the water with a fearful cry, carrying all this 
multitude with it. — De Series. 

Note 41, page 10'j. 

The Parliament, when Henry V. demanded supply, entreated him to 
seize all the ecclesiastical revenues, and convert them to the use of 
the crown. The clergy were alarmed, and Chichely, Archbishop of 
Canterbury, endeavoured to divert the blow, by giving occupation to the 
king, and by persuading him to undertake a war against France. — 

Note 42, page io9. 

While Henry V. lay at the sicgo of Dreux, an honest hermit un- 
known to him, came and told him the great evils he brought upon 
Christendom by his unjust ambition, who usurped the kingdom of France 
against all manner of right, and contrary to the will of God; where- 
fore in his holy name he threatened him with a severe and sudden 
punishment, if he desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took this 
exhortation either as an idle whimsey, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, 
and was but the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon 
followed the threatening; for within some few months after, he was 
smitten in the fundament with a Jtrange and incurable disease. — 

Note 43, page 114. 

The shield was often worn thus. "Among the Frenchmen there uas 
a young lusty esquire of Gascoigne, named William Marchant, who came 
out among the foremost into the field, well mounted, his shield about his 
neck, and his spear in his hand." — Barnes. 

Note 44, page lie. 

The armet, or chapelle de fer, was an iron hat, occasionally put on by 
knights when tliey retired from the heat of the battle to take breath, 
and at times when they could not with propriety go unarmed. 

Note ib, page 124. 

Religious ceremonies seem to have preceded all settled engagements 
at this period. On the night before the battle of Crecy " King Edward 
made a supper in bis royal pavilion for all his chief barons, lords, and 
captains : at which he appeared wonderful cheerful and pleasant, to the 
great encouragement of his people. But when they were all dismissed 
to their several quarters, the king himself retired into his private oratory, 
and came before the altar, and there prostrated himself to Almighty God 
and devoutly prayed, ' that of his infinite goodness he would vouchsafe 
to look down on the justice of his cause, and remember his unfeigned 
endeavours for a reconcilement, although they had all been rendered 


frustrate by his enemies : that if lie should be brought to a battle the 
next day, it would please him of his great mercy to grant him the 
victory, as his trust was only in him, and in the right which he had given 
him.' Being thus armed with faith, about midnight he laid himself 
upon a pallet or mattress to take a little reijose ; but he rose again be- 
times and heard mass, with his son the young prince, and received ab- 
solution, and the body and blood of his Redeemer, as did the prince, 
and most of tlie lords and others who were so disposed.'' — Barnes. 

KOTC iCi, PAGE 126. 

The conduct of the English on the morning of the battle of Crecy is 
followed in the text. " All things being thus ordered, every lord and 
captain under his own banner and pennon, and the ranks duly settled, 
the valorous young king mounted on a lusty white hobby, and with a 
white wand in his hand, rode between his two marshalls from rank to 
rank, and from one battalia unto another, exhorting and encouraging 
every man that day to defend and maintain his right and honour: and 
this he did with so cliearful a" countenance, and with such sweet and 
obliging words, that even the most faint-hearted of the army were suffi- 
ciently assured thereby. By that time the English were thus prepared, 
it was nine o'clock in the morning, and then the king commanded them 
all to take their refreshment of meat and drink, which being done, with 
small disturbance they all repaired to their colours again, and then laid 
themselves in their order upon the dry and warm grass, with their bows 
and helmets by their side, to be more fresh and vigorous upon the 
approach of the enemy." — Joshua Barnes. 

Note 47, page 126. 
The pennon was long, ending in two paints, the banner square. 

Note 48, page 131. 

This inscription was upon the sword of Talbot — " Sum Talboti pro 
vincere inimicos suos." A sword with bad Latin upon it, but good steel 
within it, says Fuller. 

KOTE 49, P.A.GE 131 

In the original letters published by Mr. Fenn, FastolfTe appears in a 
very unfavourable light. Henry Windsor writes thus of him : " Hit is not 
unknown that cruelle and vengible he hath byn ever, and for the most 
part with ante pite and mercy. I can no more, but vade etcom'pe ewn, 
for truly he cannot bryng about his matiers in this word (world), for the 
word is not for him. I suppose it woluot chaunge yett be likelenes, but 
i beseeche you sir help not to amend hym onely, but every other man yf 
ye kno any mo mysse disposed." 

The order of the garter was taken from Fastolffe for his conduct at 
Patay. He suffered a more material loss in the money he expended in 
the service of the state. In 1455, 4083?. 15.«. 'id. were due to him tor 
costs and charges during his services in France, "whereof the sayd 
FastolfT hath had nouther payement nor as.-iguation." So he complams.' 


Note 50, page 134. 

This fact is mentioned in Andrews' History of England. I liave 
mi;rely versified the original expressions. The herald of Talbot sought 
out his body among the slain. "Alas, my lord ! and is it yon ! I pray 
God pardon you all your misdoings. 1 have been your officer of arms 
forty years and more- it is time that I should surrender to you the 
ensigns of ray ofiice." Tl\us saying, with the tears gushing from his 
eyes, he threw his coat of arms over the corpse, thus performing one of 
he ancient rites of sepulture." 

Note 51, page 135. 

" The Frenchmen wonderfully reverence this oyle ; and at the corona- 
tion of their kings, fetch it from the church where it is kept, with great 
solemnity. For it is brought (saith Slciden in his Commentaries) by the 
prior sitting on a white ambling palfrey, and attended by his nionkes; 
the archbishop of the town (Rheisns) and such bishops as are present, 
going to the church door to meet it, and leaving for it with the prior 
some gage, and the king, when it is i>y the archbishop brought to the 
altar, bowing himself before it with great reverence. "—Pe;e»- hleyhjr^. 





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